I thought
about
writing
a cinquain
Of a half-dozen couplets
In iambic pentameter
But
the hour
passed
eleven.
I took 1 milligram of melatonin
With eight ounces of water,
And my mind now works in
mo・no・syl・lab・ic
thoughts.
Good
night.
I thought
about
writing
a cinquain
Of a half-dozen couplets
In iambic pentameter
But
the hour
passed
eleven.
I took 1 milligram of melatonin
With eight ounces of water,
And my mind now works in
mo・no・syl・lab・ic
thoughts.
Good
night.
Back in theDay lifeFelt better,Burdens lighter,Friendships tighter. Was life reallyBetter then?Or does timeWrite fictitiousFantasies? We reflectWith nostalgic eyes,But reality reveals whyLife was simpler;Our charges lighter. Hidden handsBore weighty burdensLightening life—Our parents’ battlesRemain unseen. Friendships faded,Weathered by time.Victims of change?Or did life’s pathsSimply diverge? We cannot returnBack to the daysThat never were.Perfect pastsDon’t exist.
“Why So Angry?” takes you from the heart’s turmoil, stirred by whispers of the world, to the gentle warmth of the sun’s embrace. This poem challenges readers to reflect on anger’s roots and embrace the peace waiting beyond the tempest.
Buy me a latte, I’ll love you a latte pleasedon’t expect me to remember your name or even say hi laterunlesswe meetfor another cupof coffee(your treat) I have a causeplease donate to my causeI’ll fight for something for meI can’t guarantee it’s worthy my causecould be for our right to eat extra stuffingwith turkeyand gravy…
We all have storieswaitingfor usto shoutout. Why won’t youstoptalking? Takea break. Please. Please. Maybeit’s your wayto say“I canrelate.” Butwhat doesyour non-stoptalkingreallycommunicate? “Are you done?” “Listento me.” “That’s great,but let metell youwhat happenedto me.” “That’s so sad,wait ’til you hearwhat happenedto me.” “Me.” “Me.” “Me!” I watchas you recite yourlatest yarn.“Me, me, me!”“Do, re, mi, fa…”so…
PiqueWildfire flamestoo fierce to tame,struck by stormsnight after night.Starting with sparksso smallthey thrivein dry heat.Too fierceto contain,charred scarsreveal the rage.Clear kindling.Let cool waterstemper these times.Tend the fire,contain the heat,reclaim blue skiesand smoke-free nights. Why Pique? “Pique” is a personal favorite. As a noun, it describes irritation or resentment, which is the exact feeling you get…
That’s when I break the unspoken rule all seventh-grade boys try to follow. All of the nicknames, the rumors and the jokes are no longer content to remain buried inside me. They force their way out, first in salty drips from the corners of my eyes. More drips follow until the heftier copper-tainted rage forces it’s way through my left nostril and drips to on my whimpering lips.