If I never hear you talking
from the shitter ever again,
If I never am privy
to your boisterous bathroom banter,
I think I will do just fine.
If I never have to sit,
while you are taking a shit,
and time the time
you spend making poopy crime,
I will be ok.
It has been two long years
and too long years
listening to your bowel movements
ringing in my ears.
And then you leave,
and the evidence does not deceive,
the foul stench of your treachery.
The spritz of cinnamon and apple
fails to cover the smell.
Glade does me no justice,
my desk is next to hell.
So please learn some consideration.
Do not come to work
and unleash your constipation,
both fecal and conversation.
I know more about you
from our chats on the throne,
the nightmares they leave make me groan.
I never asked for this,
or the damn fountain I hear when you piss.
I just want a quiet day,
not front row seats to
where your intestines play.
A critique, a commentary, a place to open up. This is what we all search for, our moment of zen, a daily offering for contemplation. No fuss, no muss. Just words on a page.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Old Man (Dying Prisoner)
The old man closes his eyes,
no tears this time
he thinks to himself.
The bed moves,
the machines pump.
Life goes on around me
but I am hardly living a life.
The old man opens his eyes,
milky white cataract covered eyes.
Nothing is quite what it seems
in shades of gray and white.
A world blurred.
No hearts are stirred,
at my plight.
The old man closes his eyes,
let the tears flow this time
he thinks to himself.
Every day passes by,
every breath laboured.
No one really cared,
just another dying prisoner
shackled to a hospital bed.
no tears this time
he thinks to himself.
The bed moves,
the machines pump.
Life goes on around me
but I am hardly living a life.
The old man opens his eyes,
milky white cataract covered eyes.
Nothing is quite what it seems
in shades of gray and white.
A world blurred.
No hearts are stirred,
at my plight.
The old man closes his eyes,
let the tears flow this time
he thinks to himself.
Every day passes by,
every breath laboured.
No one really cared,
just another dying prisoner
shackled to a hospital bed.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Monday
Sobering day,
Monday.
Just another day of the week
that weighs down like a ton
of bricks in the winter.
It goes on and on.
Time marches into nowhere.
Inching along like an insect
crawling in my mind
-I feel it in my head-
Monday is filled with piles.
Piles of paper,
piles of monotony raining down
a torrent of boredom
that is clawing at creativity and spirit,
fingernails on the chalkboard.
The end is not in sight.
It fades from red to black,
the Monday is white.
Monday.
Just another day of the week
that weighs down like a ton
of bricks in the winter.
It goes on and on.
Time marches into nowhere.
Inching along like an insect
crawling in my mind
-I feel it in my head-
Monday is filled with piles.
Piles of paper,
piles of monotony raining down
a torrent of boredom
that is clawing at creativity and spirit,
fingernails on the chalkboard.
The end is not in sight.
It fades from red to black,
the Monday is white.
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