Tag: Poetry

Should they listen

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My problems seem so petty

They make me spoiled and weak

Maybe that’s depression that’s talking

Or maybe it’s something else

I feel bad for telling my parents

I feel bad for telling my therapist

All that wasted money

because I can’t handle reality

I’m scared to confide in others

Scared they’ll tell confide it to someone else

I don’t want to be an object of pity

I hardly have it for myself

I want to be done with my trauma

Cut the tears, cut the drama

I want to be happy with my future

To cope as best as I can

Market Fair

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Do you like market fairs?

Little stalls, a lot of wares

Almost everything you want right there

tchotchkes, clothes and jewelry

Not to mention freshly baked goodies

Take a sample, stop and stare

Treat yourself, apple and pears

Empty your wallet, fill your bag

Buy all the things you’ve never had

Don’t worry, they won’t run out

You’ll love this stuff without a doubt

Little stalls, full of wares

Everything to buy all right there

Valued customer no need to blow your money

But spend a little or you’ll look funny

What? You’re going. Stop! Come here.

Aw shucks, What do I care?

Still you’ll be back, I swear. 

Conscious Neglect

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Yellow-green hardy survival

These leaves leave much to be desired

I blame the helpless

those left by unfavorable circumstance

No I blame the careless

Decadent in selfish frigid space

I cannot always wander alone

I cannot bear the responsibility

nor the repression of impatient flexibility.

Prick-ish cultivated interests

Fertilized with Dewey’s understanding

I’ve lost my chances with small living

I’ll sweep your remnants off the floor

Dead Roses

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I cared but you didn’t listen.

You wouldn’t respect what I had to say.

I made an effort, but it wasn’t enough.

You complained like there was nothing better to say.

I’m left frustrated,

Feeling graceless and inept.

You left condescension,

Token effort, rebukes unchecked.

I’m happiest doing this alone.

No meddling, no money.

You’re stupefied and bewildered,

Blinded to your own inconsistency

I throw away old roses,

My failure of dependency.

A Guilty Production

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My mother asks,

what did you do today?

Nothing or not enough,

I brace for impact

No work, no pay

Makes me a lazy girl.

I work but don’t exercise

Exercise but bad diet

Incomplete and obese

Big brained but disappointing bod

I’m anxious about the sun

Of time ticking by

I’m too young to be any good

Too busy with wasting time

I want to be a producer

Just like that broadway play

Crafting stories not excuses

To be passionate and gay

I want a vocation, a calling

A career with adequate pay

I want to be complete

At least that what my mother would say

Cornerstone

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He is the Building Block

of Salvation.

My refuge

in times of worry,

strife and damnation.

He never fails me,

though I fail Him.

His rod is straight,

His words sing true.

My faith stands firm,

so shall I pray,

It will be with you.