Life is so difficult, why isn't it easier?
I try my best and can't succeed
while everyone's soaring, I get cold feet
They can fly, so can't I swim?
as the current comes to get me I've met my end
Thrashing among the waves in the dark
maybe even get eaten by that shark
I'm gasping for air yelling out, "This isn't fair!"
how could this happen? Clearly, I'm unprepared...
As I find myself washed up the very next morning
I stumble around to gather my footing
It's pouring rain I need to find shelter
as my eyes wander there's a cave out yonder
I run through the entrance and fall ten feet
"Is this really going to be my defeat?"
I'm feeling around for it is pitch black
with my luck, I'll be something's snack
I stub my toe and now I'm furious
I yell, "Oh my gosh are you freaking serious?"
I finally find a beam of sparkling light
so, I begin to dig thinking, "I'm still in this fight"
As the rocks fall and the dirt clears
I see what I have been looking for all these years
As the light illuminates all over the cave
I see that my wishes didn't lead me to my grave
A chest full of gold and many jewels
I'm glad I didn't stop like so many fools
Now here I am in my Grand ol' Mansion
knowing I never gave up, that's my passion
Take the next step for you'll never know
what life can do for you to help you grow.
About the Creator
Bradley J Copeland
Some guy from Missouri.
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
Should We Not Try to Get Too Political?
Here's something you often hear people say, "I try not to get too political." I understand the sentiment and I sympathize with it... while at the same exact time, I completely disagree with the notion. Whether it's referring to social media or wherever, it's kind of unavoidable. You can attempt to sidestep it, not engage, leave the less important things for actual politicians to discuss... you can want it to not take over your life, your conversations, your relationships, and that makes perfect sense.
By Stephen Kramer Avitabile5 days ago in Writers
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