poetry

a new poem: “Self Observation” by Thomas Typewriter

poetry

I observed you in the corner of my eye

thinking my attention had slipped you by.

You writing those thank you letters

so conceited, so renowned

to answered prayers profound.

Reminding you in simple sounds.

That all your efforts will turn to dust.

That you never had anyone’s trust.

That you are unequivocally a creature of disgust.

a new poem: “Before Success Visits” by Thomas Typewriter

poetry

Before Success comes to stay

His three brothers clear the way.

Failure arrives first, claiming he only needs the smallest bed,

But will take two and then three instead.

Confusion arrives next with too much luggage for his claim of an overnight stay.

Excuse after excuse he generates, staying for days and days.

Disappointment arrives last with nothing to his name.

Seeing everything you have he will complain and complain.

They will bicker and argue with no delay,

Destroying your house and disrupting your ways.

But in the end they, as much as you, will grow tired

Claiming each other has an unbearable situation made.

They will leave not with a thank you said.

A broken home is their parting gift instead.

But it is a gift, their visit as much as their departure.

In home repairs you will be employed

Even the areas you would normally avoid.

So when Success finally does visits, he enters with words so kind

Thanking you for making your home such a comfortable find.

He continues saying If I may

Could I stay a few extra days?

a new poem: “Answer me this” by Thomas Typewriter

poetry

What role do I play in your life,

Husband or wife?

Am I determined by sex,

Or my effect?

Though I should not care,

I wonder if you would dare

to tell me

to reassure me

Why you love me.

Don’t answer too quick.

Please take your time to think.

In the meantime, I will continue my confusing ways

Awaiting what you will say.

a new poem: “A Personal Dilemma” by Thomas Typewriter

poetry

Fearful of no voice, I shout.

Transgression is the obsession,

bringing the words into play.

I should focus on the positive,

ignoring those things born from doubt.

But then what would I say?

My depths are unknown to me.

Without all of those causatives,

I am quiet. I am without.

A coward.

poetry

On the day I died,

I saw Death going the other way.

Are you not supposed to be my guide, I cried.

“Not my problem,” he said. “Not today.”

“I’ve been let go. I’ve been told to go away.”

“So to you I say good luck.”

“You’ve had a life. Days good and bad.”

“Chances you seized, others you let slip away.”

“Before we part let me, as one final gift, say”

“There are no more guides out there, in that death has become like life in so many ways.”

“Do your best and then do it again, soon you will find your stride.”