Midnight Poet Strikes Again, 3

Midnight Poet Strikes Again, 3

I hurt from the expectation

backhoe.jpg

Of living in the box.

Your grass was green and yellow the grain:

You loved that sweet song of September. Remember?

The one you spoke of with elation.

 

You modeled your pad and the comfort you had.

And since I respected

The choices you made and the dues that you’d paid,

I listened.

You glistened.

It’s what you’d expected.

 

It was so well meant

And my intent

Was to recreate and perpetuate

And be what you said I should be.

 

It’s human nature, you see,

 

To covet and reshape till it works,

and neglect all my beautiful quirks

that deserve their own roofline.

And now my A frame

is in decline.

Christened with a low-grade vinegar wine.

Because I built from the outside in.

Compare and contrast.

The greatest sin:

I quenched the need of keeping up

By sipping drips from a cloudy cup

Of a tonic you poured.

(Which I accepted.)

I know I’ve ignored

And I’ve neglected

My authentic, original building plans.

And now this crumbling box won’t stand.

 

The shingles are leaking, the ceiling now drips,

Though denied with my charming and polished quips,

The damage is growing. My focus, it slips.

 

The whispers that say I’m going without

all shout in my brain,

and their subtle pain

Will drive me insane

If I don’t listen and act.

So I’ve made a pact.

To let go and to flow and do what I know.

 

The back hoe is here, it’s engine is running

It’s ready to raze my structure that’s cunning,

For though it’s lackluster,

It’s predictable comfort

Has caused me to fluster.

So these words I must muster:

 

Crush 'er.

 

Matthew LaBanca, Midnight Poet Strikes Again

Midnight Poet Strikes Again, FISHING

Midnight Poet Strikes Again, FISHING

Midnight Poet Strikes Again, 2

Midnight Poet Strikes Again, 2