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large round bees finding a cranny in the crack of our building soon enough someone will take them down destroy their borrowed home its a mistake to be so close to the ground and be accessible to the inevitable humans who are simply other animals who have 3 pounds* of adjustable parameters in their heads but fail to use them when they can do not see everything simply wants to live and let live one day everything that constitutes life will be gone and returned back to whence we came recycled back into star dust its inescapable how each and every one of us big brain brutal creatures and the ones with shorter lives share so much in that we all return to the other side wherever that might be what is truth what is distraction don't you owe it to the lesser ones to generate kindness and mercy and not the usual infractions why doesn't the inevitableness of your own death make you kinder why instead is it a reminder to be cruel is it because death steals from all of us what we value so very much another day another sun another look into the eyes of someone another possibility another shot at a dream life is a kind of sleep I've heard we awaken when we die yet none of us are in any big hurry to arrive at this destination be kind be kind be kind do not destroy that which has only a little borrowed time in which to live. * footnote: the 3 POUNDS to which I'm referring to is the exact weight of our brain, of which humans are reputed to possess greater intellect, yet we program ourselves badly. legal copyright for this work/poem and also for this author/writer/poet Melissa A Howells and also for this LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE-- MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD 11:35AM PST/April 24, 2018 date/time stamped for copyright ********************************************************** It strikes me as odd and ironic how I write and write and yet there will come a time when no one will notice me after I am gone and all that will remain is a bunch of words (which passed for poetry and pithiness TO ME alone) and lots of watercolors...and the ragtag significance which I attached to them will too vanish into dust. Making meaning while I breathe sustains me somewhat. Otherwise why would I be doing it? Why would I be painting so furiously that I've developed numbness, tingling and occasionally pain in three outer fingers in my dominant hand? Is it the knowledge of my inescapable impermance which I've been acutely aware of since I was a child? How fragile everything and every one of us is. **************************************************************** Here is an altruism: good times and bad times and ALL times get over. Vote for this poem |
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