Author: Jared Abraham

confrontation

poetry

and they never quite go
exactly how i would like,
until sometime after,
safely shut up in my office,
with only Dell around,
and a song on last.fm playing,
i reinvent the whole scene,
giving myself the best lines,
wowing my opponent with wit,
swooning her with passive-aggressive charm,
and above all, showing style
as i say the exactly perfect words
at the exactly perfect time,
and there is no sense of lingering guilt
and no feelings of inadequacy
but only triumph,
exulting in complete and total
verbal dominance.

motivation

poetry

if only chris farley
would come down from heaven
or up from hell
and to my place of work
to give me some hell,

berating me without ceasing
for my slacker attitude,
and threatening with bleak prospects
should I not improve,

telling me all about
a legendary van
and the picturesque river
that could be my land.

it could be any moment

poetry

or it could be any day
or it could be a week away;
and in the waiting,
it’s hard to find peace,
waiting for the inevitable
and the moment when life begins,
again,
allowing self reinvention,
becoming who we will be,
becoming who we should be,
becoming who we are,
and have been,
already.

MLK Jr Day

poetry

i am very thankful for you
and all that you went through,
for all that you did
and all that you said;
but today
i really appreciate this free day,
allowing me to sit idly by,
eating pizza for breakfast
and watching tv all day,
attempting to forget my cares
and enjoy the moment, while it lasts.

Boo!!

poetry

i want to hide,
crouched behind doors,
cars, walls, trees,
waiting for the perfect chance
to jump up and shout,
scaring out the bejesus,
from deep inside you,
doing whatever it takes
to move things along.

the waiting room

poetry

an hour passes
and i’m still here
waiting on,
fulfilling the room’s purpose;

so at least one of us should be glad,
basking in the glow of fulfillment,
being what we were created to be,
and perhaps that one is me.

perhaps i should be glad
to wait on my betters,
to be at their call,
paying them to be my betters.

but still the anger rises
and the visions of outbursts
pass before my unoccupied mind,
internally, impotently screaming,
waiting for my turn to come.

title escaping my tired mind

poetry

i don’t know what to do,
sitting here,
dazeduncertainlyspaced,
eye-lids dropping,
feeling drunk
without having a drink,
light headed,
hoping to pass out soon,
escaping into an unremembered dream,
but nice nonetheless
and over too soon
when i once again awake
to start another long day,
another sixteen hours spent
looking forward to bed.

2,016.76

poetry

after all the calls stopped
and after the visits ended,
after i threw you out,
what was left of our love?
what was left of our past?

and now in 2016.76 ways
i’ll interpret that you said
“i forgive you:”
for being a bastard;
for being ingrateful;
for being an ingrateful bastard.

and if i could forgive you too
i would,
but i don’t even have one way
to reach to where you are,
if i only knew where you are.

exhaustion

poetry

and the moment has arrived
in which the need for sleep
is undeniable,
but still i resist because
the morning alarm will come too soon
and all of this
will start all over again,
and before i know it,
i’ll be right back here
sitting on the couch,
watching tv,
feeling my eye lids grow in mass
as they irresistibly work their way down;
but if i give in,
will the cycle ever end?