the trauma

It is to no gain to try to pretend
the butcher job performed upon the one
and the tallest and mightiest, tree,
but mainly the one main tree, the star,
it is to no gain to try to pretend
such a butcher job did not create
quite the emotional trauma; got
more than one aimless ramble out of it,

or if the mood maidens had headaches
only a few moments of sipping, of
drawing visual sips from the one
and only main tree, a tree mighty,
making it look easy to perform
silent yet majestic,

well only a few moments of sipping
never failed to save an aspirin
adventure, a mood would relax, come,
and something if only a pleasurable
dabble would invariably begin;
our one and only tree could’ve been
artfully, tastefully, pruned, instead of topped

(fucking assholes)


About come to timmy

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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