annabel inman

annabel inman Poems

In the soil of the richest land lies beneath a boiling frying pan
Explosive not like eggs hammer out a shoot
Not manmade, nor made of man
When the boiling bubbles blister through
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2.

It’s a dark day, frigid and wet outside
Inside the musk of dander and smoke soar
The ceiling, little one sleeps, ill implied
By the quiet notions of grief endured
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Many days have gone by since you left; many tears have fallen since your death
Remembering you is sometimes hard, but not remembering you would be harder
I can’t help but laugh, sigh, and cry, for you were a comedian and full of life
When I think about you, I often get sad, but then I remember, you were my dad
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How is it we find ourselves where we currently stand?
Is it the things we told ourselves and the mistakes that we transcend?
Or maybe it’s a will of another whether we believe it or not
Either way it’s kind of funny to find ourselves in this knot
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Richest Land/Richest Man

In the soil of the richest land lies beneath a boiling frying pan
Explosive not like eggs hammer out a shoot
Not manmade, nor made of man
When the boiling bubbles blister through
The land if disheveled loses all of its roots.

The enemy is quick and has no remorse
Man may survive somehow and may not of course
The land will be ruined and unable to bear babes and fruit
And mothers will cry for their lost limericks…
Nothing is left, not even sticks.

In the heart of the richest man lies beneath a boiling frying pan
Explosive with anger, his finger hammers, the gun shoots
He has just made; he is made of man
When enough is enough, his mind he will lose
The man is disheveled, face to the ground, and wears a dirty suit.

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