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 |    13.3k views, 2xBest Poetry Period. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind. |
| Why don't you point your confetti gun at the discouraged, the underfed, under-served, instead of the two percent who have enough? I stand at the line with an empty plate, ready for a few words, and see this place isn't for me. I have food at home. I could use company, but not when there is so much mediocrity that we can't cultivate the best from downtrodden souls, give them a hand in their hour of need, rather than pity for a lifetime. Why do we rub elbows with the elite, marvel at celebrity? To get a piece of that pie? Table scraps is all I see, and thus I put my plate back, return the tines and sit beneath the everlasting tree shading me for an eternity, hoping they will come visit to share a few joyous moments. The sun will fade, a chill will rise, but not for a flame burning in our eyes. Insects will bite as we don full attire and cavort about a fire, telling stories each has never heard. We hope somehow we've found a friend for life, before our tongues tire and souls depart. If I could just remember your name in the morning, I'm sure we'd meet beneath that tree again. I drive by time after time, as I'm sure you have done the same. Just didn't get your name. The search for a friend and true purpose begins again. 6.17.21 now that's a rambling piece of prose. Meh. |
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