mymechanicalbird

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Longest acrostic poem I have ever written. (read the bolded letters going down.)


Happiness
On most days,
Most days…? hmmm actually….
Everyday..

It’s not perfect.
So what? perfect is overrated.

Whatever though, it’s….
Home.
Everyone gathers here,
Rainy days? no problem!
Everywhere you look there’s something to do (sometimes to fix)

The point is,
Home is great.
Everyone should have one.

Fridge. it’s the real reason we love it at home.
Really though, it’s my favorite part!
It may have been a lie, what I just said.
Dairy products, and other foods don’t beat family.
Ghosts? People say they live there,
Eighty plus years is plenty of time for a house to collect spirits… but not my house

It’s not quite interesting enough for that,
Still interesting… but not that interesting.

Home.
A good place.
Home.
A place I can proudly call ‘mine’

You and me house! Forever!
Okay just until I move out. You’ll…
Umbrella me, keep my secrets, shield me from my fears (Burglars + stray cats.)

The best part about…..
Home is… that you can make a mess!
Okay, you always have to clean it up.
Under the stairs becomes your cave,
Game room? No! castle fortress!
Hose? No! Venomous snake!
Till dark you’ll play, imagine, grow.

In your very own house.

What a thing to have.
Outside and inside.
Unicorns? Certainly… Brooms? Not a chance!
Laugh here.
Dream here.

Secrets stay within these rooms… and that doesn’t mean you can bring in a friend…
And spill the beans!
You can’t! that’s against the rules!

Here we are safe and sound.
Even through tornados.
After we run into the cellar of course!
Really I do love my home now and…
Till the farthest reaches of forever.


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A POEM BY ME.


As spellbinding summer turns into the fall,
And the air soon becomes thin, and papery,
You look through the tattered old dreams of the past
The ones you let hang there like drapery.
You wonder sometimes as you bask in the glow,
Of passions that you’ve left behind,
If ever there was any worth in the things,
That cease to be polished and shined.
And folding like fabric, are patches and things,
Of lifetimes and of taking chances,
The florally patterned one, sewn to your heart,
The remnants of lore-like romances.
And after the searching of merriest times,
And after the odd spurt of tears,
You come to the place where nothing it seems,
Is more vulnerable than your fears.
So if you don’t mind every once in a while,
Have a swim in the tumbling, dark, stream,
That so long ago has passed under the bridge,
Or maybe not as long as would seem.