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elise-beaudoinPoems
Black skirts and black blouses, Black slacks and black jackets. One hundred black bruised hearts. Black faces and phrases; “I’m sorry for your loss”s and “If I can do anything…”s. I’m burning up and down, Dying to run from this place like a tiger escaping his stripes. Anger spills over, Punches are thrown like whipped cream pies into a clowns face, Fists fly, crows on great gusts of pain, Noses bleed and suddenly I am home. Sliding on the slope of death up to see her, knowing she would be ashamedly proud. Watching for effervescent soda bubbles, thinking this a terrible, terrible April fool’s trick only to be greeted by her ashen smile inside a tiny wooden box.
0
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:15 PM UTC
Wooden Boxes
Black skirts and black blouses, Black slacks and black jackets. One hundred black bruised hearts. Black faces and phrases; “I’m sorry for your loss”s and “If I can do anything…”s. I’m burning up and down, Dying to run from this place like a tiger escaping his stripes. Anger spills over, Punches are thrown like whipped cream pies into a clowns face, Fists fly, crows on great gusts of pain, Noses bleed and suddenly I am home. Sliding on the slope of death up to see her, knowing she would be ashamedly proud. Watching for effervescent soda bubbles, thinking this a terrible, terrible April fool’s trick only to be greeted by her ashen smile inside a tiny wooden box.
2010
Written by
elise-beaudoin
American
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:15 PM UTC
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