Poetry

Poetry — Do suppose those faux handbags regret their fake existence? The deception? The dishonor? The deceit? It is not easy being authentic in a place there is no soul. Yet the trolling urban catfish standing on two feet exploit and exist as far as the eye can see. Can we assume…

Poetry is hard It’s not everyday that you can describe The beauty in stars, moon and flowers When there are millions of stars Crashing, burning down everyday There are craters as large as a city on the moon And flowers losing their essence of living Holding uncertainty in their stems Falling to the slightest of rain and winds…

A feeble attempt at poetry — I walk that fine line between soccer mom and trophy wife. And it makes me wonder why life doesn’t come with its own how-to manual or tutorial or maybe an unabridged playbook for the formerly single, slightly misguided female. Thank you to the editors of The Daily Cuppa. It is a welcome oasis for readers and writers. A special note to editor Katie Michaelson, you are a beam of sunshine and a breath of fresh air, along with all the wonderful editors and contributors at the The Daily Cuppa.

A poem What crosses the soul when the eyes gaze Into the endless nothingness along the way? A road hardly visible, thanks to the haze: Imparting a gloomy hue to the day… A prolonged wait to travel the infinite path, Distress coupled with hope reigns the mind… Although the former terrifies with…

My complex relationship with the most wonderful time of the year — beginning to look a lot like yuletide I’m now halfway from one to ninety-two baby, it’s increasingly cold outside but even if it’s white, it will be blue it’s time to ask again, what have I done? is there still any garlic in my soul? …

I’m the asshole. Let me explain. I watched a couple. His hair was thinning. Her nose was too big. His gut hung over his belt. Her boobs sagged. His penis too small. Her 40 time too high. His laugh too loud. Her voice too quiet. Etc. And yet, they had each…