dear a certain someone

Something smacked me in the face yesterday.
It has hit me many times but being
invisible always ducked or otherwise
eluded identification
or maybe because it hid so many years
behind hallmark words about love;
but come on, since I picked up the poetry

habit even I know Love as a word
is highly abstract, and frowned upon,
though I frown on it less as I frown
on no words, because I like them all
– it is a genuine like – speaking of which,
that’s the word, Like, or dislike, or maybe outright

hatred; what hit that has hit so often
invisibly, able to hide behind
that abstract hallmark love, it’s what hit yesterday:
not that you dislike me but that your dislike,
if not outright hatred – well I guess I never
expected it – and it’s okay; it’s okay
for one person to not like another person.
People should not force themselves to pretend

they like things or those they do not. Like I don’t like
avocados. Don’t know why. I know many do.
Many love avocados. Something about them,
about avocados, and avocados
are not like words, for I really love all words
and like them too. Even avocado, the word
I mean, Avocado, love the word,
like it too, Avocado. So I bear no

ill for all the avocados
for I know millions and millions
of people love and like avocados
and simply say no thanks to things
like spending time with avocados and spend
more time with words or studying things in the real
world which have relative words. Well now I’m rambling.
See I like to ramble. Many don’t. Don’t like
rambling or ramblers. It’s okay. It is.


About Timmy the Scribbler

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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