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Christopher Oneill Poem
I am waiting in line at a coffee shop when I feel a vibration in my pocket. It captures me, and my hand shoots down, like a slug out of a twelve gauge, instinctively. When the curse has passed, I look around. Everyone is staring at their hands with their necks bent down, like a flock of flamingos. I can see their pink leaving them, being sucked out of their feathers, leaving them black.
Once we didn't need this things, and we wanted more then this meaningless robotic life. We used to connect with each other, and not the wifi. we would talk and really LOL and JK. We would read Tolstoy, not tweets, we watched plays, not six second vines. But cleverness and the need for simplicity changed that. We burry our heads in the dirt like a scared ostrich and refuse to see that our world has become violent, greedy, and sick. The small, delicate things that make up life go unnoticed, and we pretend we are happy.
once again i feel the vibration in my pocket, but I manage to fight the urge. i’m overtaken by my senses, I can hear the quiet brew, and the subtle smell of the dark coffee. I look around and notice another who has fought against temptation. Our eyes meet. we smile softly.
Copyright © Christopher Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
Christopher Oneill Poem
The torn Rawlings symbol,
old worn leather
faded light brown,
fingers coming apart.
In its web pocket,
sits a ball, which is
almost as abused,
as the leather.
Back then,
it was to big for me,
and looked
clumsy.
But now it fits
just right,
and is already
broken in
Copyright © Christopher Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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Details |
Christopher Oneill Poem
I’d rather be found,
on top a mountain
to see a landscape,
no artist could paint.
I'd rather be seen
in clear blue water,
warmed by the equator,
no pool can imitate.
I want to sail oceans,
me against Poseidon.
to fly like Icarus,
and sore into the blue.
But I am Tantalus,
trapped by my own chains,
my wings are burning,
and I drown.
Copyright © Christopher Oneill | Year Posted 2014
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