Got stuck in a rut
Trying to be some form of perfect.
Couldn’t stick to that schedule
Couldn’t keep to those plans.
It became a prison;
Stuck in a cell, the walls erected by my own hands.
It took a blast into the past
A memory; well, a few.
No more cells; spontaneity can’t be caged
No more stringency; free spirits shouldn’t be tied up.
The Boy Who Turns Into A Man Today
We have a Proser with a birthday today. April 1, 2003 (his time), the world didn’t know it then, but the world became a little bit of a better place to be.
In 2003, a gallon of milk was $2.95. College tuition: $14,500. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini was the most popular novel. Top movies: Finding Nemo, Lost in Translation, Pirates of the Caribbean. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers won the Super Bowl, and oddly enough, 18 years later, they did it again. Also born on this day: Storm Reid – Greta Thunberg but along with these, came another living, breathing soul that I feel is destined to change the world—one written word, one spoken thought at a time.
The title is a bit misleading as I have come to think of him over the last several months as a young adult, not a boy.
If there were ever one such as he to have the biggest heart, the most honest and open way of expressing himself, his views, how he explains himself when he comments on someone else’s posts—well, I just don’t see too many purer souls other than Chacko_Stephen.
I have never told him this, but I have considered Chacko to be the son I never had, and one of the truly best friends I have come to love for him being who he is. No pretense. Just an honest and sincere guy you can’t help but like.
So please join me in wishing CS a Happy 18th Birthday!
(All virtual gifts for Chacko can be left in your comments to him.)
CS: This is for you -- https://voicespice.com/Player.aspx?c=p&h=F266B35C&j=25479E
Party Time -- https://youtu.be/JTVufaGeXms
A Little Something Extra: https://youtu.be/PGcu2XTusC4 and https://youtu.be/j5hVj1pfrE4
Dunkin’ on Dunkin
It's my month
my month
to have it all
No judgement, now
we'll drink
till we fall!
The radio plays
a ditty
a tune
Then the ads, now
they come
all opportune
"Get your Irish creme at Dunkin!"
"It's St. Patrick's finest dream!"
"The sweet vanilla flavor!"
"With hints of Irish creme!"
You're mad
you're daft
'Da fuck you on
you cad
you hack
Ain't it at all!
Not 'Irish'
creme
You moronic git
It's WHISKEY
spirits!
What is this bit...
"Get your Irish creme at Dunkin!"
"It's St. Patrick's finest dream!"
"The sweet vanilla flavor!"
"With hints of Irish creme!"
I sit
I slave
Day after day
love me
coffee
But not this way
No creme!
No ice!
Just black abyss!
My Irish
needs are
Stronger than this!
"Get your Irish creme at Dunkin!"
"It's St. Patrick's finest dream!"
"The sweet vanilla flavor!"
"With hints of Irish creme!"
E m p a t h
Everything is not what it seems.
In my world mixed signals are the norm.
They roll in waves,
a fog,
thick with the scent of subterfuge.
Up is down, yes is no, green does not mean go.
Words dipped in sugar contradict bitter energy,
served on a platter, pretty little pastries best left untouched.
I try to hide from the knowing,
but it’s always there to be read as easily as a book.
Even after all these years of being right,
I still doubt my ability,
because everything is not what it seems.
Pretty little pictures on a screen,
rotting from the inside,
Salvador Dali was a prophet.
What I’m trying to say is,
even if I don’t let on,
I know.
I know what you’re really feeling.
I don’t always understand the message,
let's be fair, neither do you.
Not everyone speaks their feelings in a known language,
but energy is universal.
So please remember,
I may pretend I don’t know,
but I do.
Everything is not as it seems.
evolutionary love
What is love?
Is it safety?
Chemistry?
A burning need to touch,
taste,
crawl
inside
and bask in the glow of hormones?
Remembering your favorite food?
Someone to care for you when you’re feeling ill?
Give you the last cupcake?
Protect you from a cruel world?
Tuck you in and hold you close?
Caress the small of your back and hold your hand in the dark as you slip on the icy walkway? If you go down, you go down together.
Is that love?
Does it last,
or evolve,
into something less frantic and more comfortable?
A favorite pair of Jeans molded to your curves,
stretched just enough in all the right places.
Is it a cosmic connection?
Astral projection...
of souls?
Do we delude ourselves into thinking we’ve found it because it’s a feeling wholly unidentifiable,
myth or holy grail?
Who among us can be certain?
Show yourself.
give me your tired, your poor
Hospitals are a place of death,
pawns for the sacrifice.
Doctors are drug dealers,
knights jumping pieces.
Minimum wage job won’t pay the bills,
bishop deployed.
Buy the next big toy,
keep up with the Joneses,
rook takes bishop.
Your life for an education,
paid off by retirement,
Queen exposed.
Drowning in debt,
paste a smile on your face.
Checkmate.
Don’t worry,
there’s a pill for that.
King down.
CPR
And finally it's stopped -
The beat
The pulse
The hum
No matter how hard you bleed you know you will succumb
To the finality of death -
Of love
Of hope
Of dreams
You stitch it back together but all you get are empty seams
Even without the will -
You count
You breathe
You press
There's no DNR on file so they'll pump you nonetheless
Until regardless of feelings -
It stalls
It beeps
It starts
No matter how much damage there's no replacing broken hearts
Poetically Pathetic
Stop making me write poems.
I mean it
Pretty please
I’ve written so many already I’m down here on my knees.
Stop making me write poems.
I hate them
I really do
Yet whenever you’re around all these words spill out for you.
Stop making me write poems.
Act rudely
Be a jerk
I’m wasting all my hours trying to make this rhyme scheme work.
Stop making me write poems.
You won’t read
Or ever see
My feelings look so lame in print the only one who’ll see is me.
Stop making me write poems.
It’s a waste
Since anyway
You already know I love you and I’ve got nothing left to say.
the female assassin
the ashtray was looking more
and more
like a sick hedgehog
and her yellowed fingers
added one more quill to it
she sat back in her chair
work wasn't in the best of stages lately and
her office looked like a junkie's
trailer. You could
scrape the nicotine
off the walls. In fact, she
would get nicotine under her nails if she
just scratched her skin
anywhere
But otherwise she was
a beauty
and that was a problem. Beautiful
women have the worst
luck in marriages
The husband left and the two girls went
with him
They were sick and tired of her
habit to consume more cigarette smoke than
oxygen
And drinking was also a problem
though not nearly
as big
The worst drinking has ever done to her
was to make her lose
the driving license which she never
bothered to take back
The real problem was,
as always,
a lack of money. If the damn phone didn't
ring soon
she would have to kill someone
for a pack of cigarettes
Assuming she could still
kill
someone with her body rotting from the
inside. She was fine with
breast cancer
but now lung cancer joined too
and it was by far nastier
Still
that was all right
It doesn't take a healthy body to pull
a trigger
And speaking of triggers
She opened a drawer in her desk
took out the gun
studied it
Not loaded
She browsed through the drawer
Only one bullet left. One single bullet.
These things cost money
too
Damn it
But it's like they said back in
the mercenary camp
The last bullet is always preserved to be
used on the self
She loaded the bullet into the
gun
A life lived well is one
lived without regrets and without
ever asking for mercy
or feeling sorry for yourself
At 39
she had that. There was nothing
else to be taken
away from it
She put the gun to her
temple
Smiled
"Except for a final smoke."
***
https://bogdandragos.com/2021/02/08/the-female-assassin/
