Noun verb. Verb. Verb. Verb. Pronoun verb adjective noun. Pronoun verb noun. Pronoun adverb verb noun. Noun. Preposition article adjective noun.
As the weight of the snow bends the bough,I consider the weight of the world.The branch could crackAnd part of it will be lostLeaving a scarAnd a feeling in the treeThat it is incomplete.Or a wind of change could comeAnd cause all that troubles the treeTo cascade to its foundation.But for now, it bends and…
I don’t think I’ll look for love again. maybe I’ll seek out a dark alley with opioid addicts, hoping for a victim from a foreign town whose absence won’t be noticed for a week or more. or perhaps I’ll take out an ad in the classifieds, if they still have those. I’ll list all of…
I collect people like Pokémon cards. I can tell which species they match with. I merge them to evolve into a new being. done. Discard them and send them on their way. Or I keep them wrapped tight with a rubber band for the day when I find another one.
The lonely blackbird criesAs she flies across the morning skyOverdue at home to a family“I’m coming, I’m coming.” With nowhere to beAnd no one to take care ofI watch. And sip my coffee.And sigh.
Parker got arrested.Ben's not speaking to his father.Maya's moving away.We're separated.Kyle started school.I had to work on my child's 1st day of school.and I woke up late.My mother's dying.I'm moving.I miss your father every day.
It is a hard thing to be born;to leave the comfort of your mother's home,to leave the place where everything is taken care of for you and come into this cold world. It is a hard thing to be born.Have no control over what is happening to you.to have everything about your life change. It…
I don’t need to write another poem about youHow ironic this poemIs about you.But this is the lastI don’t need to hear another poem about youOr hear a poem about love or hate and think it's about you. Because this is the last time I'll think about youWhen I hear the word Love. or hate.…
A celebration of silence BecomesA celebration of the creak of the chairThe crack of his neck,The knock of her bonesThe cough of the manConsidering his coffinThe shuffle of feet Obviously stressed by the stillnessThe creak of a kneeThe chair againA sigh of settling for someone Who sighsDuring the moments set asideFor silent meditation And a celebration of tiny soundsinstead of silence.
If I should die before I wake, The laundry pile overflowing My unmentionablesWill surely be mentionedBy those who find me lying hereSleeping naked With a sheet and books stackedWaiting to be readAnd the curtains openSo that if I had arisenInstead of diedSomeone surely would have seen meIn the daylightAnd those who find me deadWould say it was a…
