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The Return

When did the world become
All flowers, puppies, and kittens?
Blissful lovers gladly smitten?
Hearts and candy softly written?
Maybe something not admitted,
And seldom seen or heard transmitted,
Is the fact that things are not so nice,
But why should I now pay the price?
For being the one to drop advice,
And not numb the hurt, like chips of ice.
Instead just lay it all flat out,
No matter the size of fear or doubt,
Ignoring the sound of any shouts,
That may vehemently spout
From down-turned frowning pouts.
This ain’t the hokey pokey,
That’s not what this is about.
Truth be told, all that I mean
Is that it’s time for all to drop the screen,
Blocking things they deem too mean,
Or think they may demean,
When in fact they have a sheen,
A sheen that shatters the dream,
That says reality isn’t obscene.
It is, oh my. Oh me, oh my,
Oh dear, Hey hi, no wait, Bye-bye.
Too insular to even cry,
Or tell which way, resides the sky,
So instead you say goodbye.
Actually, not even that is said,
Once that dreaded word is said–
Oh here it comes again:

Dead.

Bled, wed, blood-red, dead,
Saw those words and quickly fled.
To some other place, with tulips instead.
Well, I’m not running, I’m no quitter,
If I’m one thing, it’s only bitter,
And I never said I’d be your sitter,
So please, move on to other things.
Pleasant things that never sting.
Smell the flowers bloomed in Spring,
And swing around and gaily sing,
While ignoring all my offerings,
‘Tis only the true way to be,
A Snipewriter’s burning Grand marquee,
Going up degree by degree by degree.
Buh-bye degree.
I’m waving, you see?
On this we agree,
There’s nothin’ to see here people,
Nothin’ to see.
Just the return buried in the debris,
Of an inward exhibition,
Where I have no ambition
And make no commission,
By my own admission,
But who cares? Who fears?
Who gives a rat’s ass?
Please pardon my sass,
I was behind in my class,
Fell asleep in the grass,
Woke up and you were gone.
Hey stranger, so long!
It was certainly nice to see you,
And if only I could read you,
The expression on your face,
Is priceless; full of grace,
Hey–sarcasm in this place.
And on and on and on it’ll go,
Unless I stop sometime, you know.
So here I’ll stop, and here I’ll sit,
But you’re not here, you already quit.
And moved on to happier things,
Drifting butterflies on golden wings,
Jovial customs and silver rings,
Sunny things that never sting.
And I’m left here alone again,
That’s nothing new in Snipewriter land,
Where everything is always Grand,
And the unplanned things are always planned,
Always a supply to meet the demand,
Of listeners with their heads in the sand.
A waste, a waste. Well, I’ll be damned.
Maybe one day I’ll shake your hand.

Then cut if off.

adams family hand.jpg

Liked the poem? Then check out the whole Snipewriter series starting with these 3!

Snipewriter

Snipewriter²

Snipewriter³

 

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