I feel no sympathy for you or your many plights, The way you always seem to get screwed over i.e., experience consequences for your actions or lack thereof.
By Kay Husnickabout a year ago in Poets
I am staring at blank screens rotating through unrevised pieces of poems eyeing word counts as I type, backspace, completely delete.
I'm grinning, blushing as I talk, smiling through my words, and your name is smooth, honey coming out of my mouth. I can't stop talking, gushing, ranting, raving,
He tells me he hates traditions, how they excuse harm and bad behavior because it's always been this way, but I remind him traditions can be good,
Do: love letters, pink dahlias, wrestling Don't: nitpicking, situationship, waiting by the phone My horoscope gives me guidance I don't need:
breadcrumb your way back into the forest, Hansel I know your tricks I'm not falling for your trail you tell stories, play innocent
The algorithm feeds me messages, horoscopes, readings, manifestations that someone will return, but it calculates an error.
He is not a mystery to solve, a puzzle to crack, a book to read and analyze. No, he does not care to be tall, dark, mysterious;
Consider this my silent thank you an acknowledgment, though indirect, of how you pushed me out of our past and into my present again,
Christmas Eve was takeout fried fish, garlic on toothpicks, and presents opened on our grandparents' hardwood floors. We looked for red lights in the sky on the drive home,
I am counting down the days, crossing them off the calendar, willing the Earth's rotations onward. They go by far too slow,
Would you stay with me if I asked at the end of the night, so I can cling a little longer, linger, skip the wait to find out how it feels to wake up with you?
