Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
ron-sparksPoems
the room is filled with old lady stank the kind that assaults the nose and crawls down the throat in an angry attempt to drive you right out of the building. she says the walls are “peach” but I can see behind the cracked flakes that it was once yellow. I just grunt and sit at the edge of the bed determined to hate both colors on principle alone I don’t want to be here, in her stank I don’t want to look at the cracked and pitted desert that was once her face I don’t want to strain to hear her wavering and whispery voice Yet here I am, surrounded by horrific images of a ****** Christ nailed ironically to the walls rosary beads hanging from every candle in the room and the Blessed ****** fighting for space on the walls next to her zombie son where’s her god now I wonder sourly as I strain to hear her wavering and whispery voice relate how nice the orderly was who washed her prune of a body this morning. hell, forget the god where was her family or her friends or her nut job preacher there’s only me carrying my own stank of whiskey and smokes sitting here on the edge of her bed listening to her stories
0
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
Old Lady Stank
the room is filled with old lady stank the kind that assaults the nose and crawls down the throat in an angry attempt to drive you right out of the building. she says the walls are “peach” but I can see behind the cracked flakes that it was once yellow. I just grunt and sit at the edge of the bed determined to hate both colors on principle alone I don’t want to be here, in her stank I don’t want to look at the cracked and pitted desert that was once her face I don’t want to strain to hear her wavering and whispery voice Yet here I am, surrounded by horrific images of a ****** Christ nailed ironically to the walls rosary beads hanging from every candle in the room and the Blessed ****** fighting for space on the walls next to her zombie son where’s her god now I wonder sourly as I strain to hear her wavering and whispery voice relate how nice the orderly was who washed her prune of a body this morning. hell, forget the god where was her family or her friends or her nut job preacher there’s only me carrying my own stank of whiskey and smokes sitting here on the edge of her bed listening to her stories
#poem#poetry#poet#anger#death#whiskey#age#freeverse#sullen#pittsburgh
ron-sparks
Written by
ron-sparks
M
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem