Submissions

Hammers

My life is like a box of hammers.
A tool that is used for not its want,
But as the mastery of others.
No matter how hard it tries,
It cannot move, it cannot change,
Yet it strives over and over again.
Nothing changes, nothing bends.
It is not anything drill, saw, or mill.
No its dreams are limited,
And its skills demented.
But no matter what it says,
Nothing can change.
Hit hard, swing faster. Pound others,
But not their hearts.
How can a hammer do that of a screw?
Why can't it hold others together?
Is it not of the same brew?
What if it is not a hammer?
What if it wants to be more?
More than a hammer?
No, that's not what's planned.
The other tools chosen,
Not because of use,
But of name, of attitude, and appearance.
Maybe the hammer would like to do more
Be more than a face or a mallet.
It tries so hard, but the carpenter sees no more.
For it is only a hammer
And nothing more.



Stipend

If only money wasn't here
If we only bartered squirrels and deer.
But now instead of a glorious hunt,
We stand in but a munificent realm
If anything, we are not of the litter but a runt.

How come Income seems so hard core
Who cares about six digits, seven, or more?
Are we not something more than a sum?
Money can't buy the world
And those who can are but scum.

Stipend, stipend, stupid, stupendous.
Why is money above the wondrous?
If all we can think is the dollar sign,
Then maybe we are below a dime.
I rather not have that as mine.

Cherishing love, cherishing money is it not the same?
If a shooting star suddenly came,
Would it not be anything but a star?
For we are content with shooting stars,
Rather than getting out of the mar.