The System, Wesley Mazzara

Today I carry the samething
the samething I carried yesterday
I carried yesterday as I carried the day before
the day before I carried the day before that
day before that is all the same
all the same every single day
every single day since I entered the system
entered the system the day I was born
I was born into a certain style of life
style of life that I was forced to adopt
forced to adopt by the very people who made me
who made me something I never wanted to be
wanted to be an individual with no system
with no system but the one I want
one I want is a free place
a free place to express
place to express whatever I want
whatever I want yes I want what I want
what I want I do not know
do not know because I was never taught
was never taught by the system
by the system I was born into

Untitled, Ashley Alongi

It would happen every Sunday. Or was it on Saturdays? Well, it was on the weekend. We would sit on my grandmothers couch, blue with daisies. Or was it green with roses? Anyway, on some kind of couch we would sit. I would be in the middle clutching my scarecrow doll, Elmo would be to my right, with my grandmother and Zoe (another seasme street monster) to my left. I would be babbling about some sort of adventure the three would be having and grandma would be copying it all down. After an always delicious lunch of elbow macaroni with lots of cheese, I would take the journal from my grandmother and start drawing pictures. She would have to remind me what each page said, seeing as I how I couldn't read or write yet. I treasured those days and I think she did too, waiting to see whatever weird story I could come up with next. Eventually the visits stopped and so did the writing. And then she moved to Florida. But before she left she gave me the journal. The book I had marveled over so much when I was little was now falling apart, its pages loose from its binding and the gold design flaking off the leather cover. But yet I still loved it. She told me to keep using it, maybe actually write the words in myself this time. I never did though. It still sits on my bookshelf, untouched so that the memories of The Adventures of Elmo, Zoe and Scarecrow girl can stay they way they always were. Perfect.

Mansaray Hope, Alison Ailsa

Mansaray Hope
I have finished one part of my journey
I have come to the fork in my road
What can I look forward to
What do I set as my goal
A group home a day program
Packing groceries at a check out stand
Say good morning please and thank you
Should I be grateful that some respond
I am happy I live I hope
You have finished one part of your journey
You have come to the fork in your road
What can you look forward to
What have you set as your goal
Business finance college of choice
A trades school a skill or maybe a job
Look in the mirror
Stand tall close your eyes and see
A graduate a career
Success in its own way
Look in the mirror with me lets see
Compassion endurance kindness
Simple humanity
We will all finish our journey eventually
Grateful happy with love
With hope we will see

Why won't you stop crying?, John Zurz

“Why are you crying?”
“You know why I’m crying!”
It’s a trap, I can feel it. Its something I did, I know that much, but I don’t know what I did. There is a way out of this though.
“Ok, I’m sorry.”
“Really,” the crying had paused and she looked happy but then, “What are you sorry about?”
Shit.
“You know….”
“You have no idea why you are apologizing do you?”
It was a nice try, but as I always say you can’t win them all. Though for once I would like to win one.
“Not a clue.”
With that she started crying again.
“Please stop crying.”
Nothing.
“Please stop crying?”
Now it was getting worse.
“Stop crying, stop crying. Oh dear god, please stop crying.”

My Favorite Place - Maya Orr

My favorite place is among jungle trees. Vivid greens, reds, yellows and blues pop up from the plants scattered across the forest floor, plant screeping up century old tree trunks carressing them lovingly.

My favorite place is on a pirate ship. People bustling around to keep the boat running smoothly with repetitiveness broken only when Waterwatcher cries 'Ship!' and all rush to battle stations in hopes of becoming richer.

My favorite place is in a dragon's cave. Gold and jewels gathered, hoarded, and tossed around haphazardly, keeping their shape with even the hottest of dragon-flame

My favorite place is in a unicorn's meadow, with gentle creatures calmly chewing jade colored grass while one may even consent to giving me a ride.

My favorite place is beneath the ocean, surrounded by merpeople. Watching bright exotic fish play tag with the shadows, the reef, and the merchildren.

My favorite place is in the sky. Wind singing with all the different tunes in the world, and then one changing in the blink of the eye. Clouds rolling past lazily that can almost look like some animal or thing if you squint.

My favorite place is in my home. A warm promise of love and, at times, asubtle tinge of arguments and dischord, within a quiet neighborhood. Where I can curl up in any corner or lie flat on the floor and crack open a goodbook where I transport to all my other favorite places.

Everything I couldn't say, John Zurz

See the sun set in your eyes, the moon rise by your side
I don’t know how to say it, but I do
It’s a feeling from deep inside—comes out when I look at you
Wind blows through your hair
And I can’t help but think
Wish that I could take it all back
That you would take me back
If only you knew what I couldn’t say
On the tip of my tongue, I can’t find the words
It’s that rose blooming at your feet, the prayer’s saving grace
The slight of hand that made you smile
The joke that made you laugh, your eyes sparkle
Like those stars in the sky, oh how I wish I could say
That I could tell you, that I love you


- For those two whose names I don’t know, but I took a picture of anyway. If only they showed up in it. Hope everything turned out ok.

An Open-ended Letter to My Babies in The Writing Center, joanna vogel

Hello my lovelies! Hello my beautiful writers and readers (and you few Math and Physics studiers!), who continuously surprise me by sacrificing sleep to dredge up to the fifth floor and take up the pen (or pencil Jonathan, or pencil)!

Hello and… I suppose… goodbye? Oh, how I loathe leaving you all! For who else would I buy countless chocolate munchkins at seven o’clock in the morning and sacks of oranges to sell at bake sales? For who else would I obsess and obsess and… obsess?

Maybe I’m just a writer and, as such, am abusing the tendency to over-dramatize but, really, look, my friends, at all that we’ve been able to create in such a short time! We’ve eaten, we’ve studied math and science, we’ve held bake sales, kibitzed, partied, read, listened, laughed, ridden the F Train, banished some words and badly abused others.

We’ve written up a storm.

Now, as I leave you, I’m full of some kind of strange, almost heartbreaking sentiment. Sort of like a big fat mother bird flying out of the nest, just as her eggs have hatched and are chirping to be fed. Only, now you will have to fend for yourselves. You’ll get no regurgitated worms from me! (Well, maybe just a few, if you ask really nicely…)

But, hasn’t it been lovely?

Yes, it has. And now hopefully you’ll all learn from my many shortcomings this year and continue on to be even more beautiful and wonderful than you were when I was there to yell high-pitched prompts at you and snap my fingers for your extraordinary poetry and prose. And, while I’ve neither the time nor the tissues to write each of you poems and letters saying how much I love you and value without end your writing and dedication, know that without the support and hard work of all you pretty people, none of this magic would ever have been even remotely possible.

Thank you so much for playing along, and I hope you got as much out of the Writing Center experience this year as I did. Please keep on sharing the joy and magic of writing and literature with future generations of QHST Writing Center goers.

Peace. And thank you again for making this year so magical for me.

XOXO
-joanna

Cybersoul, Kerri McCord

Mysterious identities collide,
Electric connections of questionable reality link.
Hearts melt together by bruises and bloodshed,
through exposed sentiments and
rectified clumsiness.

Cheating is justified when
one is not satisfied.
Passion travels are heart-stopping distance,
Lack of trust affixes itself to such feelings.
Separation is maintained by fear.

Passion can die in midair,
the only memory of each other lying in
old conversations, instant message boxes.
Two strangers remain apart.

Remember Quetzal, joanna vogel

I remember,
not how to say I remember in Spanish,
but being read to
your voice speaking Spanish to me
like the purring of a cat –
you know the type of cat,
the one you’ve stroked until it
can’t sit still,
can only press itself, for dear life,
against your fingertips;
into the palm of your hand.

You read to me
about the Quetzal
no te muere nunca we said together
and you looked at me with green eyes,
beautiful feline eyes,
kissed my hand
and continued reading.

Beautiful
beloved
warrior boy who
cannot die is
shot through the heart by a
jealous arrow and since he
cannot die
the gods decree he will become a bird.

I knew the story already,
so I allowed myself to drift
in your purring voice,
rising from someplace deep in your throat,
bubbling up like thick,
dark honey.

I wondered about the Quetzal
and us.
What would happen if he, like Icarus,
flew too near the sun?
Would he be singed, burnt,
and fall into the sea
to drown?
Or would he mimic the Phoenix
burst into a mad dance of orange
and yellow flames and emerge
unscathed
and more beautiful?

In the same vein,
could I, a mere mortal, riddled with blemishes
and clichés,
lie so close to you,
my accented goddess,
and not be burnt by your cool skin,
not drown in the honey of your voice?
Could I be Quetzal and Phoenix,
could I be daring Icarus,
and orbit you?
Could I then fold up my wax
wings, roost safely in the
flames of you hair
a bird being read to by a beautiful cat?
You will not melt my wings.

Silent Defiance, Ginny Georgekutty

“She’ll end up killing somebody”
You say
And although you speak
Those words as a joke
There is one truth
Beneath it all
That you believe
The belief that
Silence is a flaw
A problem
A social “no-no”

As part of that silence
I believe otherwise

For my silence
Is not simply shy
No,
There’s more to it
Than you may recognize

For my silence
Is a voice that stands out
And takes a side
Even if you fail to recognize
The words that lie
Hidden beneath my closed lips

My silence symbolizes
The silence of millions
Because of
Hunger, poverty, natural disasters, tragedies
Or abuse
Happening all across
The world

It spits upon
The many imposters
That con millions
Of their money
Just for their pleasure

It listens to
Every word of
Every conversation
That many of the outspoken
Disregard

It silently tortures and scolds
My victim
To the point
That they are left
Clueless as to why
Exactly
I was silent
In the first place

My silence is
My polite response
To your looks
Your questions
Your gaze

And my restraint
From any possible outburst
Of words, emotions
That would later
Haunt and humiliate me

However
To be fair
I agree that at times
My silence is
No more than an escape
To evade your question
And try to guess at
The definite answer
That you are looking for
Yet
I do not know
Or to simply
Stop myself from
Saying “I don’t know”
So many times
That I look more
Ignorant than naïve

In its’ true form
Or as with my own,
Silence is anything
But a flaw
Whose voice
Is flat and ordinary

Our Nation, Adam Samaroo

I have seen the devastation and contemplation
of our nation

I have heard the pain, for the gain
of our nation

I have touched the dead, and the tears they shed
of our nation

I have smelt the lead, the sulphur bed
of our nation

I have tasted the hate, and the want to eliminate
of our nation

long belts lash upon all of our faces

ETERNALLY SCARRED

Ode To a French Stewardess, Will P.

I'm in flight Air France 493
And I'm seated in seat 36C
And as the French beauty of my dreams
Walks past 36C
All I'm thinking is that this seat
Is the second best 36C

Because on this plane
Is a woman with no name
She stole my heart and fastened it securely
She explains how to use my life vest
Just incase her and I need to make an:
In-flight-emergency-evacuation
Falling in love from 36,000 feet is no easy task.

Oh french stewardess
We we are about to take off!
Because I got my cockpit locked in its upright position
Anytime you walk past
I feel like first class
Let's start some turbulance french stewardess
And let our lips crash into a, French kiss

But as you hand me my
Pre-packed
Shrink-wrapped
In-flight
Single-serving
Fresh off the conveyer belt
Worse than Taco Bell
Poor excuse for,
Peanuts,
I saw your ring

My non-stop flight to your heart has been cancelled
Are we loosing cabin pressure?
French Stewardess

Ode To My Watch, Ginny Georgekutty

Silently Ticking as the hands move
so precious is the time
that your mechanisms express
smooth is your metallic plate
wrapped around the black oval
1-12 do you range from
but eternities do you hold
so granted do we take those seconds
those singular moments of anticpation
that years later
we look back upon
with simply
regret and remorse
with dread do we then realize
that your knob on the side
can not turn back the hands
to those moments
a second time
for us

Grandma's Thimble, Ashley Alongi

My most prized possession is small. It has never been and probably will never used by me. It is tucked a way in a small blue box. It is a thimble. But not just any thimble. It was my grandmothers. It was the one thing I wanted when she died. Through the piles of jewelry my cousins kept shoving at me I found it, entangled in a strand of pearls. Taking it out of its box my fingers running across the velvet lining, I placed it on my pinky and began to laugh. That thimble which my cousins felt had no value was an inside between my grandma and I. While the thimble could fit on everyone of her long slender fingers it could only fit on my pinky finger even at the age of five. Even though that day I left with expensive gold necklaces and rings all cared about was that 15 cent thimble. The thimble, now losing its shine, sits on my bookshelf. When I look at it , it helps me remember all the good times and it makes me laugh. Not just because of my insanely large fingers, but because I don't think grandma sewed one day in her life.

Untitled, John Zurz

Tuesday, February 15th, a day that will live in infamy. It was on this day that one of the most ghastly crimes ever committed took place. It occurred in the classroom of one Ms. Johnson, a math teacher at James Garfield High School in Queens, New York. It was in this room that the school was forever changed. Ms. Johnson was away from her desk at the time, she wasn't even in the room, another class was in there and she was taking a well deserved break from yelling at and berating her math classes. It was during her break that it occurred, a troll doll was viciously attacked.
Being that she was not in the room at the time no one took notice of it, no one noticed what had happened. Another teacher, the police refuse to name her due to the ongoing investigation, was in the room at the time, yelling at and berating her class. When the class was over Ms. Johnson returned to her classroom and talked for a few minutes with the other teacher, when her class started filtering in she went to her desk to get her seating chart, so she could call them by their names as she embarrassed them in front of their peers. It was then that she discovered what had occurred. The troll doll was lying there on the desk, unmoving. When she went over to pick it up she discovered the new mustache and beard, both drawn in marker.
She immediately called an ambulance, but it was too late, the marker had set in and could not be removed. The troll doll was stuck with the beard and mustache. One of the first responders, an EMT, had this to say, "I've seen some pretty bad stuff, I saw people killed by stiletto heels, others cut their own throats, but this takes the cake. What kind of sicko would do this to a defenceless troll doll?" After the EMT's had found what had happened they called the police, specifically SVU (Special Victims Unit) who were trained to handle crime scenes other officers couldn't. Even they were shocked. A few of the officers threw up upon arriving to the scene; the smell of marker was still strong.
The detectives on the scene immediately found the marker used in the attack, a Stanford brand permanent marker, a Sharpie as it is called on the street. The attacker had left it on the desk not three feet from the troll doll, preliminary reports state that no fingerprints were found on it. The police were able to rule out Ms. Johnson as a suspect, but every other student who was in the room that day is still under suspicion.
Reports state that the troll doll is in stable condition at Long Island Jewish Hospital, doctors said that it was touch and go for a while but the doll will make it. Though they say the marker will never come off. Ms. Johnson has declined comment at this time and is current;y at the troll doll's side.

R-igin-L, Will P.

Were all copy cat clones
of zeroxed drones
Dislexic in a fun house
these mirriors are my home
Pale blank faces
with their cold blank stares
their his and goodbye's
show that the world really cares
Run to your 9 to 5
and rely on your news
But when will you realize
a tie is just a noose

The Writing Center, John Zurz

In the writing center, well, we write words. These words become sentences or stanzas. They are then made into stories, poems, or even plays. Naturally we take it all very seriously. Ok, you got me, we are all insane. Some of us more than others. You would be hard pressed to find a relatively normal person, but who is normal anyway?
The heart and soul of the writing center is writing. Though it has been known to shift to other places, like Math or gossiping. But mostly writing. When writing, there is usually a prompt involved. The prompts could be normal, awkward, funny, or at times cause tears. We learned that one the hard way, no more hysterical crying for us. Though, we could have done without the awkward prompt phase as well.
After writing there is usually sharing, or in the case of others (MAYA!!) not sharing. We have been trying to ween people off the little disclaimers that they tend to give. It isn't working, though we haven't tried electro-shock therapy yet.
In addition to this, people are encouraged to bring in pieces of writing for revision. It could range from something creative to one of those essay's that your scotch drinking, chain-smoking English teacher assigns. No one does, ever. This is why most of the math and gossiping takes place. But if anyone ever did bring anything in our criticism would leave you with a warm feeling inside. That feeling would be internal bleeding.
Our lawyer, Mr. Kavorkian, is currently trying to inform me that this is probably not the best way to draw attention to ourselves. Also we probably shouldn't have hid that body in the closet. Anyway, we hope to see you at the writing center soon. Hopefully to write and not to serve us a summons.

Untitled, Michelle Asciote

Even though you think you see me I am hidden
Although you say you hear me
You're not understanding me
You say that I am strong
Why do I feel so weak?
I am told that I am confident
Why do you belittle me?
You say that I am different but
I feel like a stereotype
Even though I stand tall I feel so small...
Don't act so different around me
Fearing you might upset me
I can't take everything you've thrown at me
But I'll keep on swinging after you've finished
I may not be everything you so blindly believe me to be
One thing you've forgotten
One thing I pride myself on
is heart
I know how to love, like I loved you
I have compassion, but I can't keep feeling for you
But I will continue
Most of all
I know how to forgive
Just like I've forgiven you

A Place to Continue Wishing, joanna vogel

America is not a place you would call
a homeland.
You cannot squeeze good folktales
out of three hundred
years and apple pie
topped with cheese
or grow a proper fruit tree
from cement.

The streets of New York do not smell
like the folds in your mother’s skirt
or the stray tobacco leaves in your
grandfather’s shirt pocket.
And, if these streets do sound
like a kitchen;
bursting with aunties wielding
wooden spoons, mother dressed
in the apron with frayed
strings
and a patch beneath the pocket,
you cannot understand what they are saying.
America is the place
you go to dream
about the old country, to remember
the homeland, and a place
to continue wishing.

I Would Like To Lose, Jonathan Mendoza

I would like to lose… I would like to lose… Honestly, I don't know where to begin. Being someone who was born with cerebral palsy, I've always dreamed, not of losing, but of gaining something. Gaining the freedom to run and run until it feels like flying, gaining the freedom to glide upon that shimmering coat of ice in the middle of winter.

Losing what I was born with would completely change my life. Sometimes I don't know if that's good or bad. My hunger for reading and my drive to write has always come from what I don't have; that seemingly unreachable goal.

In some ways my disability is a gift; something that makes me want to reach beyond my boundaries and ignore limitations. You see, even though I might be physically disabled, I've always pushed my mind to the limit, imagining what life would be like on the other side of the looking glass and striving to do the best with what I have.

I think that losing my disability would sap my drive. It might prevent me from looking and thinking outside the box, because there won't be a box anymore. I know I sound crazy, but losing my disability, would be like losing a part of me. Losing all the memories, and all the experiences I've had, tucked away with me in my little box world.

Never Forgotten, Ginny Georgekutty

Never Shall I forget that time when words became a weapon.
Never Shall I forget the moment his face popped out of the window with such hatred against us.
Never Shall I forget that night, a darkness that greeted my sister and I with dirt and pebbles that scraped our faces.
Never Shall I forget the fear I saw transfixed in my sister’s eyes.
Never Shall I forget his words that brought shame onto our identity.
Never Shall I forget the eyes cast down, silent yet fearful as they kept walking,
Never Shall I forget how powerless we were to stop it.

Never Shall I forget the silence that filled the air with our hopes that he would disappear

Nor

the words of an elder to simply walk the other way and ignore him.

Never Shall I forget those moments even now, years after he has vanished.

Never.

Pencil Love, Natasha Bascombe

Why Oh Why do you neglect me? Is it because I don’t pencil in to your busy schedule, or maybe I’m never on point. Is the “Hustle and Bustle” of life too much for you to handle, so much that you can’t have one minute with me! NOT ONE!

I noticed our time was fading, so I decided to reflect. Reflect because I knew what was to come. I thought of the great masterpieces we created together. Your sweet hand around my waist… Your grip not too strong, not too lose, but firm and confident… All the complex problems we went through, Fought through, and FINISHED! All the sweet nothings you wrote that poured from your soul into mine! I collected them ALL, HELD them for YOU, I WAITED!

I WAS THERE! RIGHT THERE! Your friend! Your companion! Your LOVE! YOUR LIFE. I lived for you and you for me. We were what is said “meant to be”. Our connection gleams like star rubies, blinding everyone with our talent. A duet we are, A duet that sang a song with no end… The melody rings loudly in my head now as I glance down at reality. What once was, but no longer is. I look down at the blank paper and see my vanishing soul. That once loving hand reaches again, but this time to throw me away. For I am just a pencil now…No Longer your own…

Zindagi, Deepika Kewlani

Zindagi is not just breathing
It's not just surviving
Zindagi nahin hai just being a human figure
Aapka zindagi kimti chees hai
Please don't waste
Reincarnations, nahin pata hai kya hoga
Enjoy every minute as if there is no next
Kyun ki nahin pata hain if there is anything left
Do you really know the truth?
Zindagi mein sab chupa chupi hain
You need to live to find out what zindagi really is
Yeh toh son nahin hai, lakin kimti toh hai
Lakho is not enough to purchase life
Aapka kyal rakhna, zindagi pura karo
Don't waste something more precious than gold
LIFE

This Friend of Mine (Ode to a Bar Stool), Kaitlyn Pyne

A lifeless, dull object lies below me
the copper color as bright as a shiny new penny
I feel like an empress gazing down at her subject,
on a cushion as soft as a feather
Blue stripes, alive as fireworks,
dance across a dark blue sky
This tall obtuse object with secrets from the past,
alive in its backbone,
aching for more gossip, more heartache
It looks soft and timid among the other objects
ashamed of its color, its size, its shape
it's no wonder why, with legs long like a model
Alive is this lifeless shape,
content am I

nuts..., joanna vogel

The last man on earth sat in a room…
There was a knock on the door.

“Damn-it Sheila!” Herb screamed, banging his fist on the mahogany arm of his swivel chair.

“Herb, Soup’s on!” Sheila gave a final smart rap on the door, ignoring the “Do Not Disturb” sign that hung from the knob (the other side of which read “Maid, Clean This Room") and walked back to the kitchen where steam rose from a pot of murky green, split pea soup that rested on the stove.

What a loon. She thought, slicing a small loaf of olive bread. All this “I’m the last man on earth and it’s up to me to continue populating the species. Come on Sheila, come on baby, play along.” Why couldn’t he do something normal like start a bridge club or be a Trekkie? Anything.

But no, always this last man bullshit. Three O’clock in the morning and there he is, poking away. “Come on baby, come on. It’s for the good of the species…”

As if it wasn’t enough that she had been married to him for thirty years and had borne him two children. No. Now at fifty years old she had to start re-populating the goddamn planet.

“Ouch!” Sheila nicked her thumb with the bread knife just as Herb strolled into the kitchen, bare feet sticking to the linoleum tiles. Fly open. He didn’t even say anything. Just stood there with his fly open, leaning against the fake marble countertop to give her the best possible view of his open fly.

A drop of blood fell from Sheila’s thumb onto the un-sliced portion of the bread. It rolled down the floury crust, to create the tiniest pool behind the un-sliced bread, on the wooden cutting board.

“Oh for goodness sakes.” and she ran at him with the knife.

Life, Ginny Georgekutty

Every day she woke up
sitting in the kitchen
gazing out the window
with their faces looking back
not with the same smiles she knew
only with the regret, the fear and the anger
hidden deep inside her
It had been years, probably three
if she had to guess
yet she still could not grasp
that they were truly gone
she kept thinking
It couldn't have happened
It must have been a dream
Yet she knew inside
it was the only true reason
for the mess her life became
they say time heals all wounds
sure she thought, but with a scar
as a reminder each day
of the life she now faced
all alone, by herself
Why did it have to be her
Why not the bloke down the street
or the one next door
who's simply bored out of his mind
she didn't want this life
with nothing but pain and suffering
nothing but a million corpses
or the funerals of their families
grieving over their loss
of course, what would you know
you didn't live this life
She got up with a heavy sigh
and walked out the door
willing to finally face
the cruel, unfair reality
she tried to hide from, for years
in spite of her fears
of being alone,
or making mistakes
without them there to help her up
but that's the way life works
random with its twists and turns
she just had to learn to face them,
and make the most of them in her life

"Ashley Wrote This in The Car This Morning Because Ms. Mayo Said To" (or "Normal", if you'd prefer something more conventional)

Why aren't you like us?
Why don't you like what we like?
What aren't you normal?

What is normal?
Aren't I normal when I act like myself?
No normal is what's usual

Then whats the usual?
How I usually act?
No usual is whats ordinary
Normal is ordinary!

So, whats ordinary?
Something thats not special

What about unique
Different
Remarkable
Me?

Well thats why
Thats why I'm not normal

for you on a holiday, joanna vogel

I am not in the fashion of receiving
gifts.
I make strange faces
to convey gratitude,
then cover them with my hands.
All you see are my
nervously bitten fingernails
which cannot really tell you how
much I think my heart
might fall out from loving you,
and how inadequate I feel in return.

I think I may be a little old
to start breaking out the hot glue,
the paper plates, elbow macaroni, and,
in the absence of my needles and wool,
I have knit you a poem for Christmas,
for Hanukkah,
for Kwanzaa and New Years.
Now, don't get too excited,
I don't know what you've heard about me,
and remember,
this poem is a generic.
Come to think of it,
I think I might sell it
to my pharmacist,
might barter it with those
silly Hallmark people,
and get you a proper gift.