My Wretched Phone

You’re the one I gaze too, when mind is seeking light

You’re the glow beneath the covers, the company at night

Addicted to your charm, chiming when in need

Veinless with a pulse, you’re faced, yet never bleed

Your sheen detracts from mine, a foe that is a friend

Your soul holds no regard, yet your ear I seem to lend

Pocketed for safety, lonely yet not alone

Silenced, never muted, you are my wretched phone

Phone Girl by XAV-Drawordie
Phone Girl by XAV-Drawordie

Living Stopped by Ticking Clock

Waiting room…. where life is bound. Heart beats mock the tocking sound.

Dr. Death… behind white doors! Attuned to solemn namely calls.

Waiting ….life’s clock chimes in  tick and tocks. Sitting poised, Glock 40’s cocked. Chasing time while livings stopped. In comes Doc to set life’s clock.

Answer??? “No…not today.” Dr. says “Your fights not grave.” Arrrgh it’s breath not death! You live to wait another day.

Annoyed…Time grieving what was never lost.…”not today” you tell your clock.

Life spent waiting to live. Living spent reflecting on life. When do we start feeling alive?
 Image- The Clock Ticks Life Away by iCasseith
Image- The Clock Ticks Life Away by iCasseith

Am I a Ma’am?

“Thank you Ma’am…”

When people call me “Ma’am,” I perform a searching pirouette to make sure they’re actually addressing me. It breaks my heart when the teenage cashier offers up an un-assumed status. Am I that old?

Ma’am is my mother.

Ma’am is the lady strolling down the street with three leashed Corgi’s obediently licking her polished heels. Ma’am is my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Barnes, who scolded disrespect like’s we’d just committed Larceny. Ma’am is the politician demanding your regard, even when their policy imprints utter abhorrence.

Ma’am is not me…is it? The high-bun donning, odd sock wearing, tie die spattered, Australian.

I feel like a fraud. An impostor in my 26-year-old shell. Take those words back would you? You now have me questioning my age and allotment in life’s monarchy. Thanks alot Sam. You curly haired, once friendly faced, CVS employee. It’s not like I was buying Menopause medication or reading glasses. I was purchasing Club Soda!!

My mind is running around life’s playground like a pre-pubescent teen, while real teens are commenting surreptitiously on our age gap. I’m wearing this adult veneer in trickery.  A mascarade of maturity is only assembled in hope that my not so subtile messages capture societies’ soul.

Am I really a Ma’am? You be the Judge.

Dear Words…My Tribute

It’s amazing how tears never flow when fingers bleed through the screen.

When a mind becomes tangible through etchings. The feelings caged find face. A picture. A palpable existence. Words are my minds eternal soul.

Dear Words,

If I didn’t find you, who would I be? Would I live among the pill shakers, decision makers or life takers? Would med packet’s “riddle rattles” chime  life’s battles?

If I were not in fear of breaking, would I attempt to preserve my sanity right through your art? You make me whole like nothing else can. Running through mother natures playground is bliss. A familiar or foreign smile warms my heart and mind. A door held for me or by me gives strides another few inches in length. Yet, you… you do something different. You envelop warmth in societies cold. You attest to sins and confront them. You teach me what is important. You project emotions wheel, and yield significance in its circulations.

I love you for being my dearest friend when solitude needs a plus one. I cherish the smile you furnish me with in your wake. I value the melodies you create when etchings are attuned to elation and darkness. You have taught me the importance of friendship, connection, love, devotion, growth and emotions. I experience the intensity of life, yet you provide meaning in the spectrum of sensations.

I am indebted to you forever. Let this partnership hold a piece in societies evolution. 

Yours Faithfully,

Renae

creation not circulation

Casualty of Attraction

I’m on tinder, I’m on Brenda, I’m a serial offender

I swipe it right, for a night, but a text I’ll ill never sender her

My index plays the game too quick, for my mind to read a word

Finger right in digit slip for “pair pursuing submissive third”

A Doms not wrong, but it’s not my song, yet neither is this game

Will I spy with my little eye a lover in phones frame?

Am I just one flicking scroll away from a perfect match?

Or do I fish with un-baited hooks, preventing my perfect catch

Let me move from media, to tangible flesh and bone

Meets ups found in person not from entrapment on a phone

Hmmm… with words I can be witty, yet improves not my calling

Just give me time to bust a rhyme and my presence is enthralling

In coffee’s line I fail to find the perfect worded brew

Phone no frame for gorgeous dame, her post at end of que

Hearts aflutter, yielding stutter, small talks void within transaction

Tongue tied tattles, a voice that rattles, casualty of attraction

Lips tripping over pleasantries, hands fondling to find a tip

Distress is in the brew as I take that beauties sip

My heart resides in cups confides, swirling with my spoon

Dame not game for my name with fumbles found in swoon

Did she rate me, did she care, did she feel my fear?

Does she know my fluttered heart was beating tunes of queer?


Photo series by FirstAlternate
  Photo series by FirstAlternate

Did love get easier or harder to find in this digital age??

Let’s get Quirky Back into Curriculums

Are we a construction of our society?
I say yes… As a child, outliers are shunned, bullied and ostracized for their individuality.
As an adult, eccentricities are often valued and utilized to diversify companies, friendship circles and forums. The quirky friend is the most valued one. Their perspectives on life enable you to appreciate your own peculiarities.
If freedom of expression was truly accepted by the pre-adolescent, I believe we would be living in a beautifully enriched world of valued oddity.  The playground is where we first learn that differences are not accepted.
It starts with the kids! Let’s get quirky back into curriculums.


What do you think?

Quirky is our Future
Quirky is our Future

Rage

Rage is contortion of mind and body. It often engulfs its victim without warning, debilitating any aptitude for pleasantries. Rage is the pleasantry enemy! A beastly entity who persecutes the flimsy emotions of melancholy, despondency, frustration and sadness with its domination. Rage harnesses each mediocre sensation to produce a totalitarian feeling that leaves no room for any other. Rage is a dictator. When this tyrant expires, it leaves victims wallowing amongst regret.

I got a Parking Ticket this morning. Rage got me!

What does your rage monster look like? Does it have a foe?

rage_by_mattbarley-d64w3in

Image by Matt Barley at www.deviantart.com

Times Abrasions

Tapping feet, strum the beat imprinted by a scene.

A solemn song sees soles despond, as mood and tunes convene.

Treble in delight, while bass embraces gloom

Feet stampede in melody, composing moment’s tune. 

Impatient pounds in song. Intolerance of time.

A line! A Light! Delays in flight! Impart the trudging chime. 

Tippy toes, tap chipper blows, in lively disposition.

A state translates to melody, matching life’s editions.

 Can’t we tap to counteract the mood upon occasion?

Make our chime? Not fall in line, with the tone from times abrasions?

Screen Shot 2015-10-05 at 12.12.36 PMScreen Shot 2015-10-05 at 12.12.36 PM

Suckling on Mother Natures Permanence

Kindness caressing as warmth on your face

Breeze bound in breaths endorsing her grace

Humor in sun showers minus a warning

Comfort in caves affording shelter till morning

Her forgiveness in spectrums acquitting the thunder

Fierceness piercing in the breaking of tundra

Compassion cocooned in the nesting of young

Her fable in chimes, not spoken but sung

Her anger, storms wrath, splitting the ear

Fight in the lightning, landing to seer

Her life is a fixture in the rings of trees

Soul on display when spring ends the freeze

Her growth and decay yields the cycle of seasons

Bounty in fruits, she’s the endless artesian

The curator of life, the shelter and breast

A world that suckles puts her permanence to test

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