A gauntlet, of sorts...
The proverbial frog in the ***, I was.
The temperature of life went from heaven to hell,
and I boiled and drowned in the hate I thought was love.
Question one: who prepared the broth?
Stuck in the endless quackery of bottomless insanity.
Tasting the brutal shenanigans of deviant savagery.
I came upon the realization that *** was a tapestry,
that I've been weaving since I was in nappies and won't give up gladly,
but I obsess over the embroidery and the glistening femininity,
what I now know to be delusions of romance and calamity.
Question two: who proved to be unwilling to love in the end?
Last question you knave, you hopeless bumpkin.
You wayward host of tasteless pumpkins.
My tactless whims for stagefright dumplings.
Deflated effigies of, "Oh... sweet nothings."
Darling, you crazy, you an expert on bluffings,
Teetering on the cliff, with your pinstriped stuffing.
I carry my shorts on the inside, on the outside I'm long,
Word play is horse ****, but if you understand me, you're wrong.
Question three: who sold their soul for entertainment in the end?
It's nice to write another one of my nonsense, satirical poems again.
I gave a slight social-critic edge to it, but in reality I tried to focus on my own failings in life, my own troubles. Yet we do not live in a vacuum.
We all share the same mistakes, troubles, guilts and dreams.
So this poem tries to encapsulate that into the idea of taking an exam at the end of one's life to atone for all the ******* we've put ourselves through in this world.
Taking responsibility for what we do/have done in this world is the first step toward solving our issues, yet imagine only taking responsibility at the end of all things when nothing can be done but pay penance. A sad thing indeed...