Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jun 2014
Who
Who the **** was I?
And who the **** am I?
In a tree, on a limb, suspended
on the thin green twig
upended
from the hands of the old gods,
let fall to smack
every fat
branch on the way down.
Penniless and unpretty,
useless and sometimes silly,
sometimes a little bit clever,
sometimes a listener
sometimes performs well,
tricks, no old dog, new *****,
forgotten in the bottom drawer
every seam of that old life unpicked
everything we stitched
torn up, cut up, ripped.
Molly
Written by
Molly  Ireland
(Ireland)   
696
     Shae and JDK
Please log in to view and add comments on poems