Purple sky.
Blinking lights and a deep sigh.
Cars pass by.
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Picking Daisies
I know Matt Whitaker
I don’t know Matt Whitaker
Except, here’s the thing.
We’re not picking daisies
Mr. President
you’re running the country
Mr. President
and you don’t even know who you know?
Mr. President
America is not one of your companies.
America is not your next big deal.
America is not another bankruptcy for you to cash in on.
Mr. President
we’re not picking daisies,
but if we were
she’d love you not.
I am trying to tell you something.
Watch out
for
those
with
not
much
to
say,
who
shyly
hint
or
joke
with
not
much
to
day,
because
they,
just
might
be
trying
to
tell
you
something,
before
tomorrow.
Ourselves as liars.
Imagine
there are two sides to every story,
sometimes three, four,
most times there are twelve.
It depends,
on who we are, who we’ve been
and who we’re trying to be,
like auditioning for a role.
And it’s easy to say,
that you never tell a lie,
or that I’m always wrong.
If I were to believe that,
if you, are so able to believe that
then, clearly
somebodies a liar.
Meaningless Color.
black
white
brown
yellow
red
Just colors
until,
we make them more.
the straightforward poem
the
straightforward
poem,
like
the
straightforward
person,
is
often
the
one
most
curved.
Staring at the Blank White Ceiling.
In a perfume spoiled bedroom.
On a rain soaked summer’s Sunday.
Under a bleach white canopy.
Lay a girl ensconced.
Holding close, her Care Bear, she pondered.
When would be the right time to tell the truth?
Or.
Was the truth even worth telling?
Staring at the blank white ceiling.
It had felt right at the time.
Almost natural.
As a result of her seeming neglect.
Though now looking back – his eyes,
his lips, salty from pork-chops –
the way he abruptly reached for her crotch,
now all seemed wrong.
How could he (i.e. not the crotch grabber) do this to her?
Her mind shifting gears now.
Forgetting the one night loss of self,
and remembering why she’d felt so alone.
It wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t the one who left.
She was the one making the real sacrifice.
Yet why it all felt so wrong she couldn’t quite pin point.
Her makeup had always been done.
His needs, to her knowledge, were always met.
And she always made sure to tell him, she loved him, didn’t she?
Yet now lying in bed, she couldn’t fight back the tears.
Damn him and his selfishness.
How could she be so stupid to believe his lies.
She kept telling herself that they were lies, lies, lies.
But knew deep down they weren’t, they couldn’t have been.
After confessing the truth, over the white cordless telephone, her chest felt lighter.
A warm wave of relief quickly rushed through her veins.
A relief that she knew would not last.
How could anything last in a world so concerned with change?
It was nearly 10 o’clock, which meant reruns of her favorite television sitcom would be on soon.
Wiping her face with a rice pad, and brushing her teeth, she knew she did the right thing.
Telling the truth gave her validation, a confidence that could not be smeared.
She was tired of being the so called doormat.
She lay, transfixed, to the images and sounds emitting from the pleasure box on her nightstand.
It was the one where Eric and Donna share their first kiss.
It reminded her of many kisses that had been kissed.
And left her befuddled all the same.
Not liking this feeling she turned off the television.
Awake in the dark she could feel her heartbeat, beat-beat, beat-beat.
This was and was not her fault – she’d never eat a pork-chop again.
What really hurt, though, was that things would never be the same.
Yet in the back of her mind.
Tucked away in the dream she had that night.
There was this feeling.
A truth, that she was alright with that.
Words Of An Average White Male 