I find comfort in writing a simile about a tree
for nature is everything I want my words to be
Shapely
Kind
Elegant and free
I often convey the imagery of fire
for the elements display much to admire
They burn
They churn
They swirl and inspire
But perhaps the dull can be beautiful too
if granted a page
lit and dressed like a stage
I don’t recall Wordsworth describing weeding the garden
or scouring a sink
or devouring a mess
Yet despite their frustration
are they any less worthy of consideration?
We spend all this ink to buy all these feelings
but never find meaning
in the obligations of being
Like
When you meet someone new that appeals to you
they send your mind twisting and turning
Persisting and yearning with sparkling white wishes
just like your hands when you’re doing the dishes
Like
A love so familiar
that when she lay close to my face and lightly brushed my cheek
it felt like the embrace of a well-known toilet seat
upon my waiting posterior
Like
Waking up full of zest
after an evening spent getting fear off my chest
I feel so full of cheer and relinquished of doubt
like a man just finished cleaning mould from his grout
Well
Now that I’ve tried it, I’m in a bit of a quandary
because I could have spent this time sorting some laundry
Sadly that will have to wait ‘till tomorrow
and I’ll have less time to write
about the flowers in my window