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erica-cPoems
When going out he would wear handcuffs in case he committed a crime. A mistake, or rather, a misunderstanding. In rusty vintage handcuffs, in an age of Unschuld, his hunger for the white statue lies bleeding. The dingy leather jacket still smells like his old basement, and reminds him of every whisper at those hurtful, mindless nights - you cannot wash out the blood. It ends with a diminutive scream.                                                                                              An angry old man with a Walther pistol, going nowhere,                                                                                                    going everywhere, breathes out Visage-Beatha, a box                                                                                                                  full of Ashes, snores when the bullets run out. Chin up, chest out, do what a soldier do the best, would you?    Look ahead, turn left -                Wait, wait, please!     …                       *Give ‘em a mask,                                        they’ll tell you anything*. The last piece of skin fell off his back when he heard his bones crashed. An empty sleeve too. Open his mouth, look for a rightful darkness - but hey, who said that ****** never hurts? They remember, you know, remember dying, remember being dead, and die again. There’s no _____ left in her eyes, (you can’t tell just by     lookin’ at them anymore), only the star on her left shoulder Still remains the frame. A cold laugh. The orange juice spilts. Outside the purple chapel, he smiles into the local dirt, like a cupcake, looks for a vermin of walking to beat. To him, after all, Jesus means no more than a name either. … Yet his heart still pumps with Ecstasy at every April, and when he scratches the tattoo on his chest, (which looks no less than an idea), he looks for the handcuffs. And those hair never grow back.
0
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
**** Poem
When going out he would wear handcuffs in case he committed a crime. A mistake, or rather, a misunderstanding. In rusty vintage handcuffs, in an age of Unschuld, his hunger for the white statue lies bleeding. The dingy leather jacket still smells like his old basement, and reminds him of every whisper at those hurtful, mindless nights - you cannot wash out the blood. It ends with a diminutive scream.                                                                                              An angry old man with a Walther pistol, going nowhere,                                                                                                    going everywhere, breathes out Visage-Beatha, a box                                                                                                                  full of Ashes, snores when the bullets run out. Chin up, chest out, do what a soldier do the best, would you?    Look ahead, turn left -                Wait, wait, please!     …                       *Give ‘em a mask,                                        they’ll tell you anything*. The last piece of skin fell off his back when he heard his bones crashed. An empty sleeve too. Open his mouth, look for a rightful darkness - but hey, who said that ****** never hurts? They remember, you know, remember dying, remember being dead, and die again. There’s no _____ left in her eyes, (you can’t tell just by     lookin’ at them anymore), only the star on her left shoulder Still remains the frame. A cold laugh. The orange juice spilts. Outside the purple chapel, he smiles into the local dirt, like a cupcake, looks for a vermin of walking to beat. To him, after all, Jesus means no more than a name either. … Yet his heart still pumps with Ecstasy at every April, and when he scratches the tattoo on his chest, (which looks no less than an idea), he looks for the handcuffs. And those hair never grow back.
A rough draft of a poem I am intending to work on for a long time. Still thinking on a title, my friends called it "the **** Poem". So be it.
erica-c
Written by
erica-c
Chinese
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
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