Bloomer
bloomerart@gmail.com

happiness.

KID A. 

HE WANTS HAPPINESS. HE CALLS HAPPINESS: MONEY. 

KID A. DID EVERYTHING FOR MONEY…HE LOST THE ONES HE LOVED FOR…MONEY

NOBODY CRIED BECAUSE…EVERYONE WAS GONE…

KID A. HAD ALL THE HAPPINESS HE COULD ASK FOR

HE GREW INTO AN ADULT. A LONELY DEPRESSED ADULT WITHOUT KIDS

KIDS WOULD HAVE JUST USED UP ALL HIS “HAPPINESS”

THE ADULT DIES…NO ONE KNOWS NOR CARES.

KID B.

SHE WANTS HAPPINESS. SHE CALLS IT: ART.

KID B. DID EVERYTHING FOR ART…SHE MEET A LOT OF PEOPLE THAT LOVE HER ART

EVERYONE CHEERED HER ONE AT SHOWS.

KID B. MADE A LOT OF ” HAPPINESS” 

THE SAME “HAPPINESS” THAT HER OLDER BROTHER MADE.

KID A.

HE NEVER LOVED HER.

SO SHE LIVED ON TO MAKE ART THEN EVENTUALLY…

LOTS OF HAPPINESS

ENOUGH HAPPINESS TO SHARE WITH EVERYONE. 

QT 1120

I need to be where

It rains everyday.

Drowned in despair.

Father Sun to clear the way.

I’ve been without a dad.

20 years matter of fact.

Learned hard work from Mom.

Taught me to pray and stay calm.

Music

Vibrations in my ears.

I’m in my own zone.

My eyes ran out of tears.

No emotions of my own.

I might get some ice-cream.

I might buy some music.

This world is so crazy.

God knows I could use it.

Cudi and Frank

Chance and Ye.

I soak in their words of courage and love

And I know things will be ok.

The Elevator

I’m going up. You get on. I move to the…right to make room. I should have moved to the left. You’re never this close to me. I mean, we’re on an elevator so we’re kind of close, but today…it’s a different kind of close.

I’m nervous. You can hear my heart beating to the beat of the music playing in this elevator. Do I start with small talk or do I start off this encounter with a piece of romantic hard candy? I chose to do neither. I turn my head to look into your eyes. They’re almond bullets aimed straight for my face. The urge to say something sappy and lovey-dovey is so tempting that I say the only thing I can say at that moment. Before I even open my mouth, a large, wet, gassy fart issues from below and to be honest, I don’t know if it was you or me. The elevator stops. The metal doors open allowing my deadly fumes to drift out into the hall way. You walk out as if I was a stranger again. I stay on the elevator to reevaluate what really just happened and to bathe in my own disgusting gas. 

The person. This person. Yet another victim of the hopeless romantic elevator farter.