Taste of Green

The taste of green
is rainwater and dirt,
like that of a cucumber
fresh from the garden.

The taste of green
is crisp and refreshing,
like a salad in
the dog days of summer.

The taste of green
is sweet droplets of
kiwi juice running down
one’s chin.

The taste of green
is the bitter aftertaste
of lime, clinging to the

The taste of green
is a deep inhale
after the grass
has just been cut.

Kim Sealock

Going it Alone

How can I be an outcast
in a group of people, where
we all have something in common?

Though I managed it.

Standing in the corner,
taking it all in.
The young and the old,
the ones that want to be there,
and the ones that would rather be reading a book in their den.
The ones that look the part
and the ones who make you wonder why?

I stand and observe,
wondering why the staff
are the only ones talking to me?

The lights lower, and I join the group to see the show.

I enjoy the show lonely in the middle row.
Swaying and singing along.

Walking back I wonder,
do I illicit a don’t talk to me vibe?

Do I love
being alone that much,
that other people can sense it?

Drinking in the hotel bar,
the place where lonely people are supposed to meet.

I make eye contact,
people instantly
advert their gaze.

I smile a shy smile,
relishing in, the fact
that I like to be alone.

Kim Sealock

Changing Lanes

Nostalgia burns the eyes
as it plucks one’s heartstrings
to a familiar tune of a forgotten melody,
that gets stuck in our heads,
and we hum along
though we don’t know the words.

At first, one’s stomach sinks with the news
that things are changing,
and the realization that leaving home
is permanent this time.

We forget the tight embrace community has
until it comes together,
to wish us good luck on impending journeys,
and to help us up as life knocks us down.

We forget our impact
until someone presents us with a life touched
by our kindness and a smile.

We forget that people care
until we see it,
gifts of farewell for remembrance,
the cracking voices,
the miss you’s, the thank you’s,
the welling of tears in the corners of eyes.

Nostalgia hurts
even when it’s feeling better
because we can never relive the past,
only remember it
as it gradually fades into nothing but a memory.

Kim Sealock

Do As I Say!

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

It’s the new philosophy of the world.

People publicly shame
while committing the same.


“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

Mistakes make us human,
though we are shunned
by our neighbors, our families, people we considered friends.

Cause we did as they do
And not as they say.

Honesty is the best policy,
though we are taught to lie
between fake smiles.

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

Some watch and judge,
though a higher power
tells them not to.

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

A parent teaches
the New Generation,
though they fall into the same.

It’s the new philosophy of the world.

“Do as I say,
Not as I do!”

Kim Sealock

In Terms of SMS

You read in terms of SMS.
You speak in terms of lols and idks.
You interact through an iridescent screen.
That cause you not to sleep at night.
You react in modern-day pictographs.
You swerve as you hear the bings of your popularity.

That will always be false.
Everyone will love you in a moment and hate you in the next.

Never let your fear fuel your passion.
Being different is ok.
It’s ok not to be the same.
We are who we are.
Never question it…just roll with it.

Kim Sealock

What’s Left of Her’s

“Noooooo!” I yell at the dying plant on my kitchen table. I see that it’s leaves have turned that awful shade of ochre yellow.

“You have to live. You are the only thing I have left of her. I’m sorry I don’t have her green thumb or the time to talk to you the way she did. You need to stay with me. I couldn’t save her, but I’ll be damned if I won’t save you.”

I rush the plant to the kitchen sink giving it a healthy dose of water before sitting it on the window sill that gets the most light during the day. I hop up to sit on the counter next to it to talk to the only thing I have left of hers.

“You know, I need you, don’t you? I’m not ready yet.” I pause as if it’s going to talk back to me. Though I know, it won’t. I feel as though it is trying to tell me it’s time to let go and not cling to a lifeless houseplant pretending that taking care of it will save her. I look at the plant seeing its leaves shake a bit.

“Are you going to come back to me. I can’t let her go. You know that you’ve seen the way I have mourned her in front of you. Not only in that first month but the days that are special and I knew I would have seen her then. I sit there at that kitchen table, with you always in the middle and hold onto one of your tiny leaves as if it was her hand and sob, cause you are the only thing I have left of her. Please don’t take that away.”

I watch the plant wiggle some more before deciding that I better leave it alone before I drown it in my self-pity. I hop off the counter and start to walk out of the kitchen and into the living room of my apartment before turning back to look at the plant.

“You know I love you right?” I say to that houseplant wishing I had told it to her more often.

I finish walking into the living room and then into my bedroom to get dressed for work. After I finished dressing, I walk to the front door, giving a look of dread to my dying plant before I leave the house for work.

At work, I just kind of stare into space the whole day, eyes glazed over, diverting as my eyes from my computer to the picture I still have of her on my desk, in that dress that I always loved. I think about how in her life she was like a plant always rooted in her life, her need to be watered with something whether it was love or just aimless affection. Her hunger to be fed whether it be with knowledge or actual food, she loved food all types; exotic to homey that’s what she was, she was everything. Everything that, that African violet represented. I couldn’t take it if I let that poor helpless flower die in my care, again.

After work, I sluggishly return home knowing that I was going to return to another letdown, knowing I have once again failed. I have been unable to keep the only thing I have left of her alive. I throw my bag on the chair next to the door and kick my shoes off. I walk through the living room and into my bedroom to change, not wanting to face the plant that I had let down like I had let her down. I take off my work clothes and flop on my bed, devastated with the day. I lie there on my Serpa blanket trying to decide if I am ready to face the plant as I fix dinner or skip it all together and just curl up and forget the day.

After about thirty minutes I decide to face the facts and walk into the kitchen.

“Have you left me too?” I ask the plant while not looking at it yet in the window sill. I finally look up to it and see that the leaves have turned a bit greener, which lights the fire of hope deep in my belly.

“I saved you. Or did you decide not to leave because I’m such a hopeless mess without her?” I look at the plant pretending that it was the later because that was the truest in my mind because I genuinely am a hopeless mess without her. I can’t get the same stains out of my clothes that she could. My cooking skills are limited to what I can microwave. Which causes my freezer to have a shit ton of boxed food in it and my fridge to be packed with takeout boxes and beer.

“You’re such a typical dude.” She used to tell me.

I was, but I was her dude though, but that was until she up and left me for something that could never give her warmth or safety. Just lonely dark dampness for us both. A hole that will forever be inside, she could have had it all. In the end, she chose a past that I wasn’t a part of over a future we could have had.


Ink? Check.
Paper? Check.
What the hell?

Cartridges jiggled,
unplugged and plugged in again.
Blank pages cover the floor
while it munches on another.

Sitting cross-legged,
Deadline fast approaching.

Give up?
One final attempt,
unplugged, plugged,
jammed paper ripped from the throat.
Cancel print,
readjust paper,
realign cartridges.

Threaten to take it apart,
screwdriver in hand.

Shuuuuuu, shu, shu, shu.
Shu, shu, shu, shu.
Ink stains paper,
with twenty minutes to spare.
Scare tactics work.

Kim Sealock

Backseat Driver

Ya yell.
Ya fuss.
Ya fight.

Ya say I’m not doing it right.
I turn up the sound
to squash your qualms,
to listen to words from different realms.

I say your not doing it right.
I don’t want the fight.
Ya need to just sit there
with all yer might.

Kim Sealock

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