Category: Poem

“Oh mom, I really don’t know.”

Bridget Bales1 Comment

To eat or not to eat. That is the question.

To sleep or not to sleep,

Its really more of a suggestion.

Do i want to lookup at the night ceiling?

Or close my eye and do some dreaming.

The choice is all mine, you see.

You will learn to obey me.

Im too tiny for you to boss around,

Go ahead and try to put me on the ground.

You’re my new carrier now, I expect to never have to walk.

Don’t think I can’t hear you talking,

Hiding behind the counter in the kitchen,

I’ve had enough of your snacking.

Its mommy and baby time now.

Even if I fight, you’re not allowed to put me down.

We’re sleeping on the sofa tonight, you and I.

Well, you can sleep,

I will be watching the latest stream,

Fighting to sit up so I don’t miss a thing.

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Every Stroke

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The most satisfying part of the day is when the pen hits the paper and ink just flows from the fingertips.

The scritching and scratching, like a long forgotten melody.

It doesnt have to be words.

It doesnt have to make sense.

It flows, like my own personal river, taking me away with every stroke.

Overhaul

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It’s time for a change.

I’m ready for that leap.

Let’s focus up, tell them what I really think.

Dust off those shelves and get out the ink.

Get rid of the signs

That weren’t really mine.

Clear the space for what’s to come

I have waited for so long.

It’s almost here,

It’s almost complete.

I can’t wait to show you

What I can do.

When people ask, “You wrote a book”,

I can finally say with pride,

“Here’s my website. Go on, take a look.”

No more throwing money away,

No more drowning in misprints.

This time, I’m going to do it right,

I’m going to make it mine.

Just a little bit longer now,

Just you wait and see.

It is going to be fantastic

And it won’t be for free.

A Worker’s Flame

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The world is bathed in yellow shadow,

Yet, I work through the day.

The sun a blood red moon,

And here I am slaving away.

Smoke seeps through the warehouse walls,

I take a deep breath and never pause.

The ash will fall, the fires will burn, the apocalyspe will dawn,

And you will find me clocked on, head down, and working hard.

Winds whip the fires violently, the grass has no mercy.

Homes gobbled and still I cannot stay away.

Why, you say.

As the buildings fall and the earth quakes,

So long as there is demand, there is trade.

We have bills to pay, we have mouths to feed.

Taxes wont rest and neither will we.

Our hearts burn for those we adore,

It is their lives we cannot ignore.

Pottery class

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Writing is like clay. You can shape it and mold it to how you want it to be, no matter how much you cut off or add on.

The more you work with it, the easier it is to handle.

Your pot will always be your own, even if it looks like someone elses.

It came from dirt, but it’s your inspiration that gave it beauty.

And even after its been fired, glazed, and stamped with a “for sale” tag, if you don’t like it, you can always break it and make a new one.

There’s Hope

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There are dark clouds.

And where there are dark clouds,

There is rain.

And where there is rain,

There is a storm.

And where there is a storm,

There is thunder.

And where there is thunder,

There is hope.

And where there is too much hope,

there are tornadoes,

And where there are tornadoes,

there is no hope at all.

And where there is sun,

Well…

There is not that much hope there, either.​​

Like being dumped, except you left the knife in my back.

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What do you want me to do?

Stand there and be like you?

How can I justify to you what I do,

When you’ll just toss me aside, like the rest, too.

This game of tug and war

Is making me go insane.

The times we spend together,

Weren’t the memories supposed to last forever?

You were never a lover,

But a friend that was supposed

To be here when I needed cover.

I know you’ll never stop to read this,

You’ll just pass on through.

I suppose that’s why I write for me,

And not you.

I am a social outcast,

And you’re with the in crowd,

But I thought being an individual

Meant staying unique,

And true.

You’re bipolar, insane.

I can’t grasp the concept of your mood swings.

What did I ever do?

What didn’t I do?

Please tell me

So, that I may forgive you.

You’ll be my best friend again.

Things can’t just go back to the way things were,

But I know that if you just help me mend it,

Maybe I won’t have to cry anymore.

Those endless nights I stay awake,

I could never burden a line with them on your face.

The dreams I had of you telling me you hated me,

Will never pass my lips, you see.

For you don’t understand what I went through,

And I’m not asking you to.

Just stop with this incessant confusion,

And let us be friends again.

Favorite time of the year

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I remember those sweet January afternoons.

The feel of warmth against my neck and chill in my toes as I trudged through the feets of snow, sun blazing up above.

I remember them like they were yesterday,

The grey snake in the pathway,
Dried Ramen picnics,

The crunch, crunch, crunch of noodles and powdered broth.

I remember our first barbie snap-on sports bra,

Digging deep to find it like treasure,

Then rushing to our mom to show her what we found.

In those January afternoons, so filled with every fantasy game, film and novel.

Stirring those dusty sunray particles,

Filling me with that fragment of nostalgia,
Then closing my eyes and dreaming it all over again.

Those beautiful, dusty sun-ray particles of nostalgia remind me of how simple life used to be.

I got married in January, to taste that simplicity.

I saw my first dead deer in those parts.

Raised our first puppy in a Ramen box.

Played tag

Ran and ran and ran through the old apple trees.

With my four other simblings

Oh, how lucky we used to be.

The Smells in Our Lives

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Friends left and smells gone,
I cringe at the bittersweet scents of the past.

Downy as down in chemicals is sickening
As stomach flips from previous kisses

Cat and spice, like a bad foreign romance, fills me with ache and pain, and an urge to spit upon the pages and scream out in anger, “I have ascended!”

Sweat and perfume, like the two brewed on a dusty old shelf, brought back feelings of freedom, carefree-ness and an urge to give all away,

Now, sink me low, like swallowed rocks, dragging my feet as the tears fall.

Will the pain never end? Is our only solution to fill these voids with “replacements”, never truly respecting those who step into the gap.

Smelling is as heartwretching as puking, vomiting, expelling all the bad and the good, never able to choose between.

Oh, what I would give for a smell eraser machine.

Apology before Repose

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Hate to be a little emo.

I’m normally a shining star

During these holiday seasons.

Building and crafting

Like Ol’ saint nick with a

Hardy har har har.

Though, I’ve worked myself

To death, you see?

My body is weak,

My mind is somewhere off sea.

A sickness overcame my senses,

And blew me out of proportion.

I’ve got no new ideas

For this year’s generation.

I hope my apologies have

Not been too late.

Perhaps I’ll serve a cup of tea

And take myself off the stake.

Two deadlines I have missed,

And two stories you are owed.

I’ll stop procrastinating,

And throw in a third untold.

So take a seat,

Prop up your feet,

And prepare to feel defeat.