I can do better than this- but this website is called primitive for a reason.
Fish need Oxygen
Though they swim
In water clear
As glassy day
They gulp air
The same way
A human chugs.
Their gills remove
The oxygen from
The crystal water.
Their bodies bloat
Filled with air;
Filled with food;
Lacking of lungs
They produce food.
Food for plants
The plants eat
Like humans soak
They eat carbon
Regardless of form
Making carbon, oxygen.
Fish need oxygen.
Plants need carbon.
The cycle continues
All within my
Fifteen gallon tank.
As I walked to class
I was already late.
“Free hot chocolate!”
I suppose this is fate.
Smooth and creamy
And not cheaply made
Feet dragging, I waddled
Throwing away my grade.
I saw the posters from far off.
“Fifteen week old fetus”
“What are your thoughts on abortion?”
The question raised a fuss.
As I answered “I’m against it”
And I started to leave
Annoyed by his presence
Tugging on my sleeve.
Suddenly class was a haven
Safe from hard conversations.
He took my email
Interested in my conservation.
I only ever loved on woman
Her name needled into my arm forevermore
In small scratched black ink, “Lenore.”
Though I was abandoned at birth,
The lovely Lenore learned me healing.
I had one other love that trumped
A love for the road and leaving.
A rubber tramp, barely breathing
If I stuck in a town too long.
She however, was oxygen.
I would visit her stately stead,
Hoping for a meal, hoping for warmth
Hoping for the touch which warned
Warned of weary discontent and malcontent.
A touch forged with a demon’s hammer.
It was fuel for my heart
And though I would beg her,
Begging for company on the lone road,
No interest in my travel showed.
The fuel transferred from heart to tank.
White pine tree tea boils
In gray teapot
Made char black
With warm stomachs
Warm hands grasping cups.
Ever since I was struck
With a senseless need
For repetition, repetition, repetition,
I find myself lesser on knees.
Standing and sitting more
By a notebook or computer
Searching two ways: one
Helps while the other brings me further.
The former warms my hands
While the latter pushes blood
From finger tips as if
Not allowed in the formed duds.
White I write my heart pours
Out onto the notepad by
way of cheap pens and paper.
My heart is anything but shy.
Meanwhile the tapping of the keys
The rap, rap, rapping of buttons
Entertains my dull mind,
As I follow the traditional shut-ins.
When I was six or seven,
I fought back tears.
Induced by a silent family
And loud kids at school.
When I was six or seven,
I watered my own roots.
Strength begotten by pain,
Growth begotten by digging.
Now that I am old
I ignore my problems.
And though my tears are dry,
Doubtless, I have many more.
Hiding, buried, watering roots.
A hole in the wall,
About size 12.
“Who did this?”
“Not me.” “not Me.” “not me.”
Only properly read on desktop.
Do what I say.
You’re just as green
as my yard.
I don’t need
To mow the lawn
That’s why I
Just do it.
Froth breaks as I dip my tea,
Wishing I had brought headphones.
Choosing to ignore those around me.
The music is lulling, the conversations drone.
A Dirty Hairy; steamed milk and Earl Grey.
A hint of sweetness on my tongue
The heat of my drink burns less than what they say-
Words of envy, gossip, and high-strung.
A pile rests on my table of waved wood.
Phone atop of Bible, metaphysically true
I know I should, and totally could,
But there it sits, second in crew.
Shadowboxes rest with plain white frames.
The pictures inside match the frames plainness
Strange patterns of green and purples flames
Being sold for ninety-five dollars. Painless.
This place is all too real, it exists.
Full of pretentiousness
Which fully insists
He smoked his single cigarette upwind
Noticing the tears welling in my eyes,
“Does this bother your?” He grinned.
“No, it’s just the wind.” Partly true, partly lies.
He asked me my name and my story.
I gave him the short answer,
One of ease, with little worry.
I didn’t ask for his, I pondered cancer.
He asked for my help, I knew he would.
He had no job, no home, and no phone.
He said if he had a phone, then he could.
A cheap twenty-dollar purchase, just to be known.
I told him I could help a little,
Feeling cornered, I reached into my pocket.
Retrieved four dollars, crumpled and brittle.
Unbeknownst to him, I was a simple pickpocket.
For in my right pocket, was five dollars,
And in my left was another forty.
Instead of stealing material from him,
I stole his chance of a new life.