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mark-john-junor-1Poems
her face a bold echo of all she left behind a slow symphony of nasty things that linger in her mind she lives them over and over in the off color technical vision of an artist trying on her own guises for a adventure the night crawls over her thigh lodges in the warm wet of her fingers and spreads into the windows grey fades into black the slow devolution into the jaundiced eye into the nicotine stained tapping fingers as she impatiently waits for words that can never be spoken aloud the slow desire for tears so deep and immediate that its a bible to the lonely soul and her senses deny you even as you touch the door even as you evaporate down the hall melt yourself into the humid night so fair is her face that you live each of thouse seconds in dire regret so fair is her touch that you must lean on your last breath to let go the night crawls in her bed clothes laying its fetid eggs like a stain of pollution tender and sickly sweet its insect face bitter staring from her soul now i see you you escape over and over door hall humid night door hall humid night but you never leave narrow her eye jaundiced and rancid lay open for the world to see and be seen by and she molds him to the stain of her hurt deep impressions over the years leaves him little room to wiggle wiggle worm, wiggle wiggle worm
0
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
wiggle wiggle worm
her face a bold echo of all she left behind a slow symphony of nasty things that linger in her mind she lives them over and over in the off color technical vision of an artist trying on her own guises for a adventure the night crawls over her thigh lodges in the warm wet of her fingers and spreads into the windows grey fades into black the slow devolution into the jaundiced eye into the nicotine stained tapping fingers as she impatiently waits for words that can never be spoken aloud the slow desire for tears so deep and immediate that its a bible to the lonely soul and her senses deny you even as you touch the door even as you evaporate down the hall melt yourself into the humid night so fair is her face that you live each of thouse seconds in dire regret so fair is her touch that you must lean on your last breath to let go the night crawls in her bed clothes laying its fetid eggs like a stain of pollution tender and sickly sweet its insect face bitter staring from her soul now i see you you escape over and over door hall humid night door hall humid night but you never leave narrow her eye jaundiced and rancid lay open for the world to see and be seen by and she molds him to the stain of her hurt deep impressions over the years leaves him little room to wiggle wiggle worm, wiggle wiggle worm
mark-john-junor-1
Written by
mark-john-junor-1
59/M/American
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
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