Long Fixable Poems
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8/29/21
A world caught up in being digital
And far too political
Full of all these imbeciles
Certain problems beyond clinical
Not so easily fixable
It's typical
To relate it toward something biblical
Need proof for the truth otherwise it's fictional
Therefore admissible
Far too miserable
People doing things that are pitiful
Humans still being inhospitable
Doing something unforgivable
Over reasons that are pathetic and inexplicable
At times it paid off to stand out or remain invisible
Did the most or my output was minimal
Used it for reasons that were or were not medicinal
As an individual
They've been so quick to treat me like a criminal
Still won even when the odds were formidable
Because I knew it's always been far from predictable
Others have always been doing things that are despicable
Leaving folks in conditions that are critical
Acting like they're invincible
Yet they'll never understand the subliminal
Since they've been cynical
I'll win the war in ways that are not clearly visible
My brain spots are pastel dots
that always fight with my stripes
over who is left and who styles right.
It’s bad enough that my stripes
also argue with each other,
not over their primary color,
but vertical décor versus horizontal.
My brain top is invisible,
not even shadows of minimal.
Brain designers concur it is not fixable.
In the back, well-stashed,
is a golden memory cache
guarded by a spot named Brat.
Small Brat drags a key most tall
and selfishly guards my recall.
Floating, flying, gliding free
is a silver-toned, sprite fairy
who sparkles imagination in me.
Fairy will not argue, just avoid,
my fuzzy brain, logic droid
who climbs over my stripes
and around all my brain dots
attempting to fill and deploy
smarts into all my brain voids.
Fruitful faeries flying freshly frightenly faraway
Flashing flea-bitten furry fireflies fantasy fey,
Faux flash-dancing flowery figs flowing flippantly free,
Ferocious fierce foursome fruit-flies flying fantasy’s flea.
Fast-fingered flicker formidably frugally fit flexible.
Frosting frilly flounder’s fluorescent fetish fully fixable.
Fanciful freckled fathomably frosted filly fibs flitting,
Fashionable forcefully fanatical farmhand fuzzily fretting.
Fun-loving, flippant foolhardy fivefold finger’s foghorn.
Fooled fellow’s fervent fleecy foppish fire fuzzily forlorn.
Fantastical fanged frolicking fishy fuzzy fickle frills.
Fixes froggy’s fanciful fanned fox figs from freezing Frankfort.
It is a thorny impossible situation. No one is talking, eyes are red, feelings are not being shared. No one knows who to trust. Whoever did this is either a friend or an enemy, and no one except the killer knows
which. We are moving around each other with distrustful glances, suspecting our best friends, our cousins, our coworkers. Hoping we are wrong. It is a trying time, and it does not dissipate for months. Death is bad, but murder is somehow worse. We are on autopilot, jumping at loud sounds, never fully the same.
Paralyzed by fear
Never fully fixable,
We suspect our friends
Written for Mick Talbot's Haibun Contest
on June 25, 2018
3/10/15
It was visible
That he was a strange individual
Because he followed his own principles
And never believed in anything biblical or political
To some that was unforgivable
And despicable
Yet hardly anything he ever did was criminal or typical
And most of his ideas were original
In a world so digital
He knew that nothing was invincible
And far too many things were mythical
And fictional
But he stayed unpredictable
In a place that was truly livable
It was pitiful
That many were inhospitable
So he was never egotistical
Or critical
Because he loved being mystical
Even if it was considered as non traditional
Outside the municipal
He reached far above the pinnacle
But those that were episcopal
Tried to cover it up as if it was invisible
And even though it seemed rather inexplicable
He paid no attention because doing his own thing was irresistible
And what they had done was easily fixable
She is dancing on top of the pole,
Wearing only a pair of shoes.
Lights are turning on and off,
Owning the eyes of Evil's crews.
In the corner a man bowed his head.
Enjoying the pleasure of a vodka drinks.
Waiting for the moment to end,
And plead to a woman for an hour of seat.
He is a typical guy from a downtown...
Everyday visits and watching her afar.
Never aware of love will grow...
Dreaming that someday he take her home.
But who will treat her like a beautiful flower?
The question hanging on her thoughts.
A broken glass that isn't fixable,
Who has the courage to reborn her soul?
She is a woman,dancing on her shoes.
Lights are turning on and off.
His man is sitting,waiting for his turn.
Praying that her woman wear his ring.
I stare at the paint I have smeared.
Knowing it is time to give up, I refuse.
You're tired, my heart says.
You're exhausted.
Sh! I say. I'm trying to fix this.
The more I try, the worse it becomes.
Bad brush, I say, throwing it into the water.
The next brush is bad too, and the one after that.
I get frustrated now.
My painting is a mess.
I need rest.
My mind knows this.
My heart refuses.
I need to paint! she cries.
Winning, she begins.
Four more brushes get dunked into the water.
They are all bad.
Ten minutes later, the painting is thoroughly ruined.
Completely non-fixable.
My neck and my back ache.
I am exhausted,
and I am irritated with myself.
I knew better.
Why do I always listen to you?
I think, admonishing my heart.
My mind laughs.
6/9/22
Apparently far from tacit
Near endless racket
In day light and pitch blackness
For the sane and those in strait jackets
Dammit
Still sporadic
Caught in transit
Can't rely on magic
Nor give up when it all turns tragic
It's just madness
Even though I feel low and nearly at my saddest
I don't care about any bracket
Or what all is on this pamphlet
I've no intentions to read 'Hamlet"
What the happened?
A world obsessed with gadgets like tablets
Most act like they're above you and in their own palace
Becoming cold and callous
No matter, I shall handle this
No need for prayers and candlesticks
You may be an addict
Following the same old habits
But it is something you can kick
And quit
Occasionally worked with a mallet
As well as pallets
Sometimes had dinner with shallots
Just trying to maintain my balance
Mentally it's a challenge
The same can be said for honing talents
It's bat
Still all this bad
Across the planet
It's not all written in stone, aka granite
Looking at it
From the entire gamut
Instead of a single facet
I don't care about party affiliation, like being Democratic
Quit being so dramatic
It's fixable, far from problematic
You'll regret it, if it turns to static
Because you will be turned to ash quick
By a device made of metal and plastic
Won't be much left for a casket
It's hard to make a classic
And smash hit
I'd like to mine for agates
I already buried the hatchet
For now enjoying the view of the Aurora Borealis
While drinking out of a Titanium Chalice
Good intentions not full of malice
Still looking for my Alice
Catching feelings
There no cure for this type of love
It's a disease without a antidote
It's can be dangerous if not carefully planned out
You can choose to go through it
Or remain celibate for the rest of your life
Most dangerous part is it touches the heart Iike a sharp knife
your heart will ache
for days weeks months and even worst it can be some years in getting yourself back together again
It leaves a empty space in the pit of your stomach
Food can't even help it
The only way of getting over that emptiness in the pit of your stomach is if that love stays by your side
till deaf do you part
I can't sleep
I can't eat
Without you
If you are mumbling those words under your breath
Then you been hit real bad by love poison
Your veins will boil like hot lava coming out a volcano thats about to erupted You
will not make it
The scars are not fixable and you will die
Title: Catching Feelings
Written By: Shaniki Smith
Date: Written September 9, 2017
The inerrancy of the bible enrages me,
Boils my blood, riles me and angers,
Makes the interpretation prerogative limp,
Nullifies that interpretation bud passed onwards,
From every author who’s not embarrassed.
You read knowing the art of literature,
Is in its reader’s agreed distance from the writer,
Knowing your book’s rationally contrived,
Aware of your right to read it your own way,
Understanding the possible word play.
The bible is not authored in any way whatsoever,
Has many different historical authors, contributors,
’Twas compiled by the Nicean committee,
Maybe, by a group of intellectuals deep,
So that Jesus and an insight we could keep.
Computer Science confronts with dares,
Regarding your view of the written word,
Makes fundamentalists intrepid and silent,
About their author god who cheers and assists,
Even when reading the text, when reason so persists.
Computers let you delete certainties, things,
Change and edit completed documents,
Tell you that you’re human and creative,
Welcome your attempts, errors and mistakes,
And give fundamentalists the quiet quakes.
All inerrancy will do is frighten you and scare,
Vanquish your reason with its complementation,
Evade form for an augmented version of it,
Which will emerge as a differently defined structure,
Worth neither solidification nor the puncture.
There are no wrong actions with my computer,
No thought or situation that can’t be expressed,
No colour unavailable on the rainbow palate,
No code not writable, not fixable or reworkable,
No desire inconceivable, that’s not addressable.