“Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died.
Published by Lighten Up Online and Potcake Chapbooks
NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! This poem also questions who the "original sinner" was. How was it not the Creator, if such a being exists, since owls are forced by nature to ****** innocent mice and other prey animals? Is it possible that the Creator is not so heroic either? Keywords/Tags: Death, Nature, Rhyme, Pain, Creator, Predator, Prey, Mouse, Owl
Ink blots impossible knots testing the limits of a circular drive one hand on the wheel the other copping a feel of his passenger mate dutifully nursing her neonate foot goes down to apply the break fracturing fingers is what it will take to lessen the voice avoid the slade move the mountain tell me, don't floaters eventually get flushed?
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I may be young But I believe 16 years of experience is worth 16 stepping stones To reach the expectations of society And spit in the face of it
We are prey to the predators Involved in a war of existence Where we bleed tears And cry blood Functioning wrong Because we are told we are never right
Validation we rarely receive is sweet they say
But how do we know when they
Sliced our tongues to hide our screams
Trouble is lurking from the parents that gift the children with what they want In contrast to what the children need
My pen doubles as a society cleanser Writing all the wrongs in all colored inks Inspired by the beautiful equal people And I take that sliced, beaten down wood So I can shove it down their ******* throats
And I find peace under their tears I craft it into a blanket Yes, its cold However, my body is warm from the scars of bullet shells, death stares, and unwanted opinions
The embodiment of shyness Like a nun who took a vow of silence I am not looked at any other way Except a girl who's face is gray But if only people knew, If only people looked through, The keyhole to my imagination, They would think I am a creation Of the devil himself
I may no speak, but trust me I am more predacious than you believe.