Facebook Status:
Religion is the result of an attempt to shrink and fluffy-bunnify the universe.
Unlike · · 12 minutes ago ·
You like this.
Response:
The only proper use for deification,
Is in fact fluffy-bunnification,
Not in putting rules and regulation,
On things like family and fornication.
A few seconds ago · Like
let go
let go
just let it go
and let it be
for it is done
And nothing
can be done
to change it
they’ve let me go
decided they don’t
need me
i’ll survive
but I still
cannot believe
i won’t be there
to see you smile
to hear you laugh
to see your faces
light up with joy
to talk to you
to listen to you
to help you
i was your teacher
you were my happiness
and my frustration
but they don’t need me
though I think
you still need me
but I won’t be there
to share your triumphs
you may miss me
but soon i’ll be
no longer
in your memory
you’ll let go
of me
for it is done
just let it be
and let it go
let go
let go
Threads,
One single thread,
Winding through,
Ever present,
Standing true,
Imprinting,
Impressing,
Royal joy,
Pomp & circumstance,
Since I was a boy,
My life was there,
With twists and turns,
While Windsor’s flame
Just burns and burns,
In the background,
Ever so true,
The Monarch there,
Unchanging hue,
I flitter round,
Not knowing where,
But Elisabeth was sitting there,
Always strong,
Steadfast and true,
Me wandering,
As I’m prone to do,
I’ve built my life,
Both right and wrong,
With Elisabeth there,
Still standing strong.
I’m a poet.
You all know it.
But I have no words.
It may sound absurd,
And a little cliche,
But I have no words,
Only feelings today.
I wanted to write something,
Special for you.
Something funny, profound,
Inspirational too.
But the moment is here,
You’re going away.
I feel like there’s so much,
I wanted to say.
But these few little rhymes,
These thoughts of mine,
Aren’t enough to sum up,
All the good and bad times.
But you know it,
And I know it.
It’s hard to have no words,
When you’re a poet.
I love walking through crowds.
Some things sit deep in the bones. For me walking through crowds is one of those things.
I grew up in the heart of downtown Toronto, so I got lots of practice.
I have to be alone. It’s pretty much an individual sport. I prefer to have a destination as well.
It’s not absolutely necessary, but helpful, because then one walks with more of a sense of purpose.
It can be with or against the crowd, though going against the flow completely presents a bigger challenge.
Reading the flow. Looking for the gaps as they open and close. Anticipating them. Weaving in and out seamlessly, like water in a maze. Kind of like parkour without the gymnastic s.
Sometimes the crowd gets too thick to read, or too erratic. When it’s filled with old women, junkies, children, and dogs all at the same time it makes it too difficult to see a clear path. That’s when you retreat to the edge of the sidewalk, walking that narrow strip of concrete at the edge of the sidewalk, moving fluidly, dodging lampposts on one side, and traffic or parked cars on the other.
Then there is the challenge of the crowded subway platform. Weaving through, whilst looking for the break, the slight space with the best chance of being near the door when it opens, and feel that little inner victory for calculating correctly.
In the best moments it becomes quite poetic, with a beautiful flow, gliding through the human urban landscape.
“Girls are made of sugar and spice, and everything nice, as wonderful as can be,
With just a twist of narcissist, and a pinch of OCD.”
See it as you will,
It’s in no way wrong or right,
Just due to who I am, how I’m made,
I’m firmly anchored in the light,
It’s no fight to stay here,
Just an act of nature,
As is your dance with darkness,
Doh-see-dohing twixt night and day,
Keeping black dogs at bay,
Not a choice, but a natural state,
To which I can sometimes relate,
Though not really understand,
Still,
I can stretch forth my hand…….
No papers to grade.
No lessons to teach.
With summer just,
‘Round the corner,
And just within reach.
I’ve marked every test.
Even organized my desk.
Yet, I’m here.
Woe as me.
Getting paid,
To write poetry.
Dear Momma,
I miss you
everyday.
But on
Mother’s Day,
I cannot say
how much
it hurts
my heart
to be apart
from you.
Insight. It’s a simple word,
Whose meaning is quite often blurred,
When you can’t see past your nose.
So wrapped up in feeling hurt;
Your victim mode on high alert,
To see you’re “one of those”,
One of those who come what may,
Just can’t see the role they play,
Blame others when you step on your own toes,
So try and try as others might,
There’s just no way to force insight,
You’re so wrong you can’t see right,
Drowning in your “woe is me”,
You’ll need more than therapy,
To ever help you see! See?
Random Misanthrope 
