I suppose the next thing
You’re going to tell me
Is that it was my fault.
I’m used to this type of
Ridiculousness going
Against reality.
Why can’t it be normal
For once? Why do we
Have to pretend?
Just once, I wish
You would let
The walls down.
There once was a chap from Southend
The Jobcentre decided to send
On a course on Employability
Which was more like futility
And eventually sent him right round the bend!
More at https://djtyrer.blogspot.com/.
I’ve tried to tell you
But you won’t listen,
That’s the way you are,
You say what you want to say
And nobody else’s opinion matters.
I see your face shut down,
How hard you become when
You close your heart and
Block out all the sunlight,
Hanging on to the illusion of control.
I’m getting tired of this pathetic
Behavior, there’s more to life
Than trying to get along with
Someone who doesn’t know
How to be anything but difficult.
After many years on this earth
I’m outraged that we are
Still the type of nation where
Spineless leaders cower at
The feet of degenerates who
Want to destroy other souls
Just because of the color of their skin
Or the origins of their families,
That we still have so few voices in
One of our major parties
Willing to stand up for the weakest
Among us rather than doing the bidding
Of the worst elements of our society
Shame on all of them for not
Defending our democracy
I wanted to watch you flower
but all I got was the thorns.
Your shadow,
instead of sunlight
I forgot how to feel warm.
Your pinprick kiss
bled my mouth
as I sat trapped within,
the nonsense of your failure,
a game that I could never win.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Paper snow
on the floor
shredded dreams
that used to be my poems
words spill onto pages
only to fly off
looking for cohesion
searching for a theme
day after day
frustration reigns
as the ritual repeats itself
a line here a phrase there
then all is lost
and once again
confetti festoons my world
—–
Ann Christine Tabaka was born and lives in Delaware. She is a published poet, an artist, a chemist, and a personal trainer. She loves gardening, cooking, and the ocean. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her poems have been published in numerous national and international poetry journals, reviews, and anthologies.
I keep checking
my email app
repeatedly
refreshing
every few
minutes
for that
response
I needed
hours ago
over again
and over
hoping
the letter
I wait for
impatiently
arrives
faster
each
time.
Sign here, date
next to your name,
initial three times after
you take note of the fine
print… here is a magnifying
glass so you can read
all of the page…
wait at least six months,
call three times, leave
an angry voice mail.
I’m sorry, we did not
receive your application.
Are you sure you sent it?