I feel so vitalized, stylized, unanalyzed.
Eclectic, electric, not hectic!
My cells are atomized, crystalized, uncompromised.
Eccentric, ecstatic, not skeptic!
My mind's been mesmerized, civilized, unprivatized.
Fantastic, elastic, not plastic!
Cuz I have level eyes, country sized, unrealized.
Authentic, romantic, not manic!
...Or, maybe I'm just a little bit bombastic?
Goldilocks and the three bears,
The story is a classic.
But one idea came to mind,
What if she was made of plastic?
With lips so swollen
And cheeks so bloated
She was red and shiny
And was very coated.
The bears that came saw the porridge,
They searched and found Goldilocks.
Screaming and fearful, they ran away
Because she had a very scary Botox.
Sea trash begone, as youth shall surge
with their passion and devotion
Debris where land and water merge
Sea trash begone!
Breakthrough solutions in motion
ending plastic pollution purge
Serene is a blue-green ocean
Unafraid to swim and submerge
inheritors, high echelon
Fallen baton cease and emerge
Sea trash begone!
You never bothered to inform
That flowers of life go on to decay
As time and the alike storm, sways away.
So I crafted my crown...
Exquisitely out of plastic flowers
And now I'll wear it through the years
Till the colours fade and the fabric tears.
Why do we see so many plastic bags blowing around and about?
A million such bags are made each minute, today I found out.
We use them to carry books, gardening tools, whistles and plastic stars.
Most of us use them daily, and they blow out the windows of our cars.
It seems to me that plastic lives, are those that are portrayed,
By people whose lives are more than likely, wrongfully conveyed
Social media is good for nothing, except to zombify
People who sacrifice their lives, for the likes that they rely.
Nobody lives a perfect life, plastic lives seem wrong.
Life is far more challenging than the one each claim belong.
And the irony of those who seek, is that nobody truly cares
Each play the game, so in return, their life you’ll have to bare.
In return for all this sacrifice, to prove their life has worth,
They forego the simple pleasures of living on this Earth,
The secret is not creating, the illusion of the best
But being thankful who you are, without the need to be obsessed.
Doctor’s office
The fern in the corner is plastic
They couldn’t afford silk?
There is nothing refreshing about it
There is a candy jar
The old guy has been up there six times
I know because he brings the wrapper to me
I am sitting next to the wastepaper basket
That fern is disturbing
Anything that ugly should not be shared
I would be doing them a solid
If I put it into the wastepaper basket with these wrappers
They sought wordage enough to establish the foundations
were they would afford enough and would venture into
the actual creation of an organization that
would look at today and sum up the facts of existence and
not only decide on the type of stone to create the statues and
trophies: but take the tractors and horses and the men to
the pits: quarries and mountain sides
find the stones , extract thee stones find the model and
carve .Association Membership Systems to afford
Union Parties and Galas.
Encourage membership. To
Have language that encourages
interest into the functions of structural detail.
Movement within the firm
so that promotions and demotions.
Trends and changes
income and analysis
Sussession:Stewartship and Stability
(Meddling)and Anti Meddling Processes
Unbeat and Positive.
( were you a clam poacher or
did you poach the clams? )
Lauage sepARTIONAL TERMS AND DISTINCTION)
She drifted alone, lost at sea,
Tossed away so carelessly.
A bottle, once held tight,
Now forgotten, out of sight.
She whispered stories to the waves,
Of hands that held her, days once brave.
But now she floats, unseen, unheard,
A silent ghost without a word.
Then one day, a boy bent low,
His tiny hands began to glow.
"Mama, look! What’s this I found?"
"Just plastic, love, it’s all around."
His fingers traced her weathered skin,
A life discarded, worn so thin.
But in his eyes, a spark was lit,
"What if we could change it, bit by bit?"
They took her in, they made her new,
Melted, shaped;a dream came true.
A brick, a road, a sturdy thread,
A future built where waste once spread.
She stood again;not lost, not weak,
A voice once silent, now could speak.
"No longer poison, no longer vain,
I’ve found my purpose, healed my pain."
For what we waste, we can restore,
Turning less into something more.
One by one, hand in hand,
A world rebuilt by hearts that stand.
So pick her up, reshape the game,
From plastic to purpose;we rise again.
oh generation of garbage collectors
toss it out ...buy more
he shoots ... he scores
paper plates ... plastic faced
paper hearts ... what a waste
disposable lives ... biodegradable promises
We weren't always dolls
Before the dolls - flesh was
RAW
and torn
Before we were dolls we could rip open our skin
and bare it to the world
and when a little girl peered inside
everything was new and unseen
but flesh got harder to dig into
and tear
and stretch over a canvas
and all the little girls grew impatient
for it had been a long time since they had seen something new
so the little girls tapped on our skin with gnarled hands
and crooned
open up
let us see
but we didn't
we couldn't
open up please
let us see
its been too long
but our skin was fully hardened then
plastic as a penny
LET US IN
they screeched
and clawed at our skin
but it didn't yield
when our pretty pink lips parted in protest
only echoes came out
and a little girl leaned in
maybe to peer through our mouths into our stomachs
maybe to taste the blankness
but when it did
it choked
its mouth filled with pounds and pounds of fluff and nothing
whispers of when skin was made
to be torn
and little girls didn't dull their fingernails down
scratching at doll flesh
Red on my jeans,
Seeping through the seams,
A stain makes a story
no one wants to read.
Blood lodged between my teeth,
fencing away the chatter of an angel,
each word swallowed,
a prayer unprayed.
Hands mute with quiet sin,
A muse on every thread,
what the mouth won’t spin—
a tale of blood, a story of regret.
In threads blackened of memory,?
each ounce pens a line,?
a story that pulsates beneath,?
feeding on a lie.
My basket full of plastic flowers:
Pricing them passes all the hours.
air rockets skyward
uppercutting inside
plastic neon flesh
contorting at inhuman angles
what does my body language spell?
ankles anchored into the Earth
to stay grounded as the wave
of time and space crashes
a flood of stagnant flux
there is a symphony of bones
snapping and cracking
in twisted orchestrations
the act of existing for me
is a resilient demonstration
I’ve been sitting here so long,
My butts getting numb,
So I jump right up
And stick out my thumb.
He comes rolling down the street,
With the only smell of mention,
The noxious fumes; olfactory tension.
Now I’m not trying to make excuses.
But I Really needed to get to,
Lower Catoosas.
This dude with odiferous outlet
Was a goin’ my way.
If you think that was dumb,
Just listen to this:
It was a super-charged Edsel
With slicks on the rear,
It had the characteristic stench of,
Cheap, stinkin’ beer.
When I jumped in the car
He shot me the Bird,
And laid on me
These immortal words,
“Far in man…
Like what’s going off?”
I was stunned awhile
Had to catch my breath,
He looked at me with
A grin like death.
The smell was real,
The driver was not.
Like a bobble-head doll
On the dash installed.
I regained my feet,
Away from the freak,
“Thanks, but I’d rather walk”.
Related Poems