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Nigdaw Sep 2021
there is a shortage of fuel
is all they heard as they
ran to the door car keys in hand
we are all doomed
"how will I get to the shops
go and see auntie Doris
drive to the gym
get to my golf tournament"
so they ****** the pumps dry
despite advice not to panic
they panicked
we are just short of drivers
there is enough petrol
to power you through the week
worrying about pollution
and going green
and how will it affect me me me
so tonight when you wait
for the takeaway
your taxi
the police
an ambulance
or fire engine
just remember
that trip is waiting to be made
in your selfish fuel tank
There is a shortage of drivers in the UK, so the supply of fuel has slowed down, not stopped. Everyone panicked and now there really is no fuel.
AM Jul 2020
Last night it rained petrol, it started pouring.

The rain merged into a senseless storm, and somber water and omen drops slowly trickled down the wrinkled silken sheets that Mom never ironed, but always loved.

The drops fit perfectly through all the cracks in the broken roof,
that Dad never fixed but promised he would, and black mist began to fill the rooms.

The storm was brute and merciless, and it soon came knocking at the door. Thick air tainted the bottom of the mossy walls,
where Sister knew she shouldn't, but still painted purple dinosaurs.

The asphyxiating wind ran fast across the narrow corridors,
it took pieces of the broken family portraits that Brother sang to on his ever first encounter with alcohol.

Petrol fell endlessly for days, thunders echoed on the dense raindrops, and the whims of the winds covered the desperate whispers to make it stop.

---Neighbour's house always had sun, and Mother and Father and Sister and Brother years ago had moved to another town

And sitting there was I, watching as the petrol poured down---
I have so many family poems and these are very hard to publish for me. Please treat with care.
Vexren4000 Oct 2018
Payback for payment,
Petty paltry peril,
Primrose periwinkle petite girls,
Petting potbellied pigs,
Petrol pounding in pistons,
Pending papers piling up,
Pens polling poll takers,
Petty paltry penance,
Paid by the piper.
For a piece of peace.

Death-throws Jan 2016
Crash test pilot  diving through clutter
My brakes  dont work
But im running out of gas anyway
The pills dont work
But i drank all my water yesterday
Starved of thought
To hungry to thirst
Im feeling like today cannot get any worse
Fianna Beth Jan 2015
Do you still recall my touch?
How I played with your dainty fingers and
traced murals of dreams on your palm?
I wonder how it feels now,
like venom running through your veins.
I am the poison that your parents used warn you about as a child-
pure, unadulterated blight in alluring hourglass bottles.
Magnetic spectrums of colour,
mimicking spilled petrol,
enrapturing naive, starry-eyed souls
oblivious to the threat I pose.
The realisation; too late.
I destroy you,
leaving you feeling the rush of my affection
but innocently unaware I have forsaken you.
And, oh, how you’re addicted.
The destructive euphoria with which I intoxicate you,
mesmerised by the dilated eye of the magnified dust devil.
Cursed by my breath-taking, malevolent ‘love’

— The End —