Heaven sent this message for a reason!
We can’t stare at it with blind eyes
while the rest of the world sleeps.
What kind of people would we be
if we just let a pair of kitchen shears
go by the wayside?!
We need to give them a proper home
before they end up as scrap metal, or
worse, a pair of average scissors.
Substance abuse caters to the infinitely patient and unlikely tortoise shell comb, unbreakable and unwilling to change its sorry status as a tool of man–it’ll live out its days as an unrepentant drone, content to wallow in the vanity drawer with the brushes and lotions of the world.
I have no use
meddling with some
cute piddly melody
if nothing of substance
ever becomes of it–nay,
there are too many jokers
caught in this farmer’s market
[and not enough bok choy to go ’round].
While I’ve got your attention, I have a couple things I need to get off my chest. For starters, this shirt is really bunching at my armpits. You don’t mind if I take it off, do you? Well, I’m taking it off either way, so your opinion really doesn’t mean squat to me at the moment.
But you know, I only took off my shirt to show you the other thing I want to get off my chest. Do you see it? Look closer. [Closer! CLOSER!] Yeah, it’s weird to have a toenail growing out of a nipple. I’m not offended that you vomited; apparently I’m the only documented case of this ever happening.
I wanted to ask you a question about this thing. Should I just trim it and polish it, or should I go for more drastic measures? I don’t know if my insurance will cover this type of cosmetic surgery. I should just get a boob job and hope that my new jugs distract from the freak show.
This arrow has too many feathers for my liking. I can understand their utility up to a certain point, but I fail to see the point of a dozen. Doesn’t wind resistance hamper any semblance of aerodynamic effectiveness? And come to think of it, where did those feathers come from? How many birds must you kill to fill your quiver, you rat bastard?
The clock strikes its mother as it lunges for the last grocery bag at the end of the checkout counter. No clock can afford to keep its dignity with plastic as expensive as it’s become. Please be aware that clocks are rarely such instigating ne’er-do-wells, but time[r]s are always subject to change.
I’m not in the business of explaining or justifying the words I use [and am capable of producing]–I’ll leave that to the people who read it. I generally stick to that ideology when it applies to things other people have created as well, not because I don’t recognize or understand the significance of their exploration, but because I’m too busy worrying about the significance of my own exploration.
Is that selfish? I guess it must be, but I can’t function any other way right now, so it’ll have to do.
Why should this development be judged as uplifting [rather than shackling] to my soul and creative spark? Well, I thought about it while I wrote [and edited and kicked and throttled] it, that’s why. It’s been mine to think about for much too long by the point it reaches the reader, so some fresh eyes would certainly be nice.