Ask me any question
Anything you want to know
You can wonder why I say this
You can question why it matters
I’d argue that it doesn’t
Life cant be explained
Conscience is so complex
But I dont need science to tell me I can think
And breath
And feel
If you saw me in real life
You’d think a multitude of things
Some things that are rude
Some things that are kind
And you aren’t a bad person for the rude things
But you aren’t a good person for the kind things
I supposed that’s alright
I suppose we could still get along
Share a cup of tea
Maybe right a song
And yes, I did make that rhyme
No, not intentionally
Because this is more than just a poem
It’s the introduction to my story
Now you’re sitting there thinking something
Along the lines of
‘Wow this is ironic’
Because who breaks the fourth wall in such a stupid way
Hello, my name is Adriel
So back to that question you asked
Whatever it was you queried
I’ll answer for you, but not now
In time you’ll understand
But for now, au-revoir
About the Creator
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Good Used One
You never thought you were worthy of a new one, as much as you admire the new ones, commitment and high maintenance were always paramount in your mind. You always found the new ones to be intimidating, good used on the other hand are hard to find, that is what your mom always said. Hopeful mother always hoped you would take a leap into a new one. Today you think maybe it’s time to get a new one, but then you walk past the new ones because across the street you see what might be a good used one. Scratched, a few small dents with a scuff on the front bumper. Not looking too bad for its age, you take it for a test drive. Immediately you notice it has its own characteristics. A stubborn personality of its own with the occasional twitch to the left, a couple of spare tires, leftover baggage in the trunk, a twenty-footer that smokes, a little raspy grunt as it starts up. You wonder, can that be fixed? Maybe it's the smoke, the years of cheap gasoline causing that sound when the engine starts up. Maybe a good oil change will help it out. Once warm it settles to a not so raspy toon. A crack in the windshield is to be expected. It's easily been around the block and you think it looks a little odd with two larger tires in the back. The smell of old man wafts up into your face as you slam your ass between the lumbar of the driver's seat and again when you corner a bit too hard. Silent, the salesperson sits and appears to be a bit nervous. You can see this nervousness with your peripheral vision. The focus is stiffly straight ahead and you wonder, maybe I drive a bit too fast, but you do not slow down, because you always liked the fast ones that handle well in the corners and maybe the salesperson was just pretending not to notice the smell or hoping you were not thinking it was coming from their side just as the window cracked open a bit. After the test drive you stand in the parking lot with your hands in your pockets surrounded by all the other good used ones. You're focused on the new ones across the street. The one’s mom wishes for. That is when the salesperson starts with the story, it is just like mom said, Every good used one has a story. Don’t be fooled by it. You are polite, you listen and hope it is not the story about the old lady. This was my son's used one, after it had been owned by an old lady since new. Immediately you think here we go with the old lady story. I never intended to sell it, after my son's tragic accident that left him bedridden. Always hoped he would get well. My spouse died a year ago. Couldn't bear it, fell face first onto the floor. Died of a broken heart—that is what the doctors said. You listen patiently through a pause. I'm going through some hard times, and it must go. The salesperson lit a smoke. One puff, then a raspy cough. Over-and-over the cough and you thought a lung might fall out. Name your price. The salesperson says, turns briefly to gob, It’s the best one of the used ones. You stand silent, your hands in your pockets looking at the new ones across the street, easily within reach, all you need to do is walk away.
By Gerry Thibeaultabout 11 hours ago in Poets
I've Just Realized
The President doesn't understand music. There. It felt very good to write that; it's some thing I just realized today. Oh , yes; he plays it. He TRUMPets it in rallies and meetings, pumps it across the airwaves when he gathers up our minutes waiting for his late arrival.
By Judey Kalchik 3 days ago in Beat
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