You are like sweet pickles.
I prefer dill,
Always have and always will
And your taste will never be enough.
But I choose you
Because you are the
Only thing on the table
That looks familiar.
Your skin is just as
Pleasing as a dill pickle,
But this little similarity will only
Sour my smile,
And my disappointment in your taste
Will become quite apparent
As it echoes through the tunnels and channels of my
Lips and eyes.
But I’ve passed up cheeses
And wines for you
(The cheeses are unfamiliar,
Smelly, and fattening; the
Wines turn me red
Yes, I have chosen you.
I hope your eyes dilate at that
And the growing and enveloping blackness
Takes over your vision and your will,
Rendering me invisible
But twice as lovely and
Four times as dangerous.
With you blinded now, sweet pickles,
Let me tie you up in my fingers
And kill you.
Salty with a tang
My Great Aunt Nita’s little gift
To make us happy…
I worry like a mother about her child
She’s gone again
Dead to the world
No matter how much shaking and calling I do
Another breaded miracle in my mouth
Momentary bliss, a high
Then the crash
Fried pickles distract, but
Once reality returns
I’m still worried
She’s still gone
She oft praises the strokes of my pen
Yet when her image comes into mind
The words in my head run thin
And my ink runs prematurely dry
I have not written a thing worth mentioning
For the girl with the cute button nose
The hand clasped ‘round my pen begins fidgeting
As my mind remembers her toes
I stare blankly at pages of paper
When my mind’s eye conjures her smile
My cerebral wells start to taper
Though my love for her flows as the Nile
The beauty of her body is not justified in text
So I will spare you the reading: her beauty is best
A Poem by quinfinn
" you know who "
queen of sarcasm
sorceress of sass
or she'll tell you to kiss her ass
when she speaks
you know what you've been told
frail as a flower
pretty as you please
a lady, a vamp
and a beautiful tease
belle of the ballroom
silly, yet sage
we all love our posy
when she pickles the page!
© 2013 quinfinn
The mirror stained with our memories, pictures
I am not in many of them
four pictures, we look happy
The bleeding sky was the only thing that gave us release
Like the winter would fill our bones
and cigarette smoke would ignite the fire in our eyes
that had long since burned out
we lay on that floor on the balcony till dawn
talking about how
we will never be good enough and
life is pointless
I show her my scars apathetically
My bubble cant be burst
surrounded by static
want to scream
When I was but a boy
no older than 4
I insisted that the number of pickles
on my sandwich be representative
of my age.
4 years. 4 pickles
5 years. 5 pickles
6 years. 6 pickles
This went on for awhile.
Eventually, though, I felt it was time to end that particular tradition.
28 pickles was getting ridiculous...