FairWriter

Beautiful, as she meandered into the profile picture of her dreams. Hair meticulously styled, angle right, and artificial light to highlight that which is dark. I thought, certainly she was someone to befriend, yet she wanted nothing to do with me. She loved to sin. I found a woman with a double chin, bags under her eyes, walking around the block, taking it all in. I thought her time had come and gone, nothing more to my life could she add. Wishing she’d be a mere acquaintance, I left after our small conversation, not recognizing she was the definition of a friend.

  To close or not to close. That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of Mexican influx. Or to take arms against a wall of troubles And by opposing break them. To die—to sleep. No more; and by a sleep to say we end The politics and the thousand subjective opinions That flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, in an asylum—ay, there's the rub: For in that of inflation of what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal conundrum, Must give us pause—there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. To close or not to close the American border.

 I both reach and retreat. I want you and want nothing to do with you. It is predictable that I both hate and love you. I want you near and must retreat. Like a civil war and trip to Disney Land. You are my contradiction Both push and pull. America, I pledge allegiance and protest you for being immoral.

 The clouds are unstable So too are the waves But my faith is stable, solid. Rally and debate is unstable. Fire and Water too. But, God hold us safe.

 Why do they all leave, what is wrong with me… the medications have changed me to the point I don’t recognize me. Why did I lose it all, Perhaps to a bigger call To love others more than they love me.

 Dear Reality, I must be honest. You’ve been hard on me. You’ve tossed me back and forth. Made me feel helpless. Everyone said I have to accept you, but you’re toxic sometimes. I know we’ve been friends for a long time. I’m willing to work with you, but you need to compromise as well. You need to stop taking up my entire day. You need to be understanding when I have to speak with Imagination and Dream. Don’t crowd around me. Don’t pull me away from them. They are my friends too. I’m sorry, Reality. I know how difficult this is for you. I know you want my attention 24/7. You just can’t have it. Your Friend, Tamara

Trust our neighbors… Love our enemies… Open borders… Lay down our lives… Give of ourselves… High calling… Realized in the first century

 I lived in an era of Biden supported by Taylor. Maga supporting Trump. An independent, some nameless man, stealing my vote. An era of open borders and closed mom and pop’s shops. An era of sorting it all out when exposed to everything on an easy access screen. And I lived and loved during this era.

 Am I a poet? I ask this daily. Do I see the abstract beauty under the reality surface? Do I see blue and red making purple? Or do I see Republicans getting along with Democrats? Am I a poet? I ask myself this sometimes because daily might be exhausting. A good ending to a poem is a restless girl looking up at the night sky and seeing just that.

 Is it fair to wake up to the shaking sunrise as it sets, as it rises Covered in a white blanket of poverty and vulnerability  fair or dark alike, choices and consequences Waking up to the woke war on the outside and the conservatives bottle it on the inside America, stepping like a child, into a vast ocean of surprise Be alike yet different Is it fair to me?

 Glorious grey with your thematic expectations and sudden revelations. Many depend on your bland expression, hoping for a hidden salvation. Are you a subtle manipulator or a passive observer? Your color may not be color, making your theme perplexing. Glorious grey don't pollute the clear water. We find you in ash, rain clouds, and cement. Calling you neutral may not be correct.

A return to the pen on paper. Ink from the soul splurged on a white sheet. Will you consume my smorgasbord of spelling and reprieve? An art that dies will resurrect a need for transparency. Return to poetry. The ache to master the language of the babbling baby. The need to communicate as an adult. Shakespeare expectations meet cliche. I am not a poet, but I write as I grieve.