I walk down this overgrown trail
twirling past the objects in my way.
Dancing with laughter as I turn
to watch them stub your toes.
Will you never learn to watch your step?
Here . . . in this spot
next to the ripened apple tree and the dead rose bush
I'll wait for you.
The smell of rubbing alcohol and fresh rosemary tickle my nose the closer you hobble towards me.
Your tears of anguish are roughly wiped away as you blow your nose on your sleeve.
. . .
And suddenly I feel terrible for laughing.
Sit down baby.
Let me help with those ****** feet.
Take my shoes girl.
These objects can't touch me.
No sweetie, it's fine -
fill those shoes with blood and grime.
I'll wear them no matter the filth when we find a safer place for your unclad feet to tread.
Clime into my pocket beautiful;
I'll carry you to a better path.
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC
I walk down this overgrown trail
twirling past the objects in my way.
Dancing with laughter as I turn
to watch them stub your toes.
Will you never learn to watch your step?
Here . . . in this spot
next to the ripened apple tree and the dead rose bush
I'll wait for you.
The smell of rubbing alcohol and fresh rosemary tickle my nose the closer you hobble towards me.
Your tears of anguish are roughly wiped away as you blow your nose on your sleeve.
. . .
And suddenly I feel terrible for laughing.
Sit down baby.
Let me help with those ****** feet.
Take my shoes girl.
These objects can't touch me.
No sweetie, it's fine -
fill those shoes with blood and grime.
I'll wear them no matter the filth when we find a safer place for your unclad feet to tread.
Clime into my pocket beautiful;
I'll carry you to a better path.
Request permission to use this poem