#meanpeople - Hello Poetry

Listen to you speak... verbose and way too loud incessant - speaking at me or as if I were a crowd. You often are pedantic.. like a pompous- preachy fool.. who'd really like to think that he's taking me to school... when what you fail to grasp we can't avail No Golden Rule - 'do unto others as you'd have done to you' and this... might sound upright- of course... if you believed it too. All Rights Reserved * 2016 - Cherie Nolan

0

May 19, 2016

May 19, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC

Moi-Cherie

"No Golden Rule"

Listen to you speak... verbose and way too loud incessant - speaking at me or as if I were a crowd. You often are pedantic.. like a pompous- preachy fool.. who'd really like to think that he's taking me to school... when what you fail to grasp we can't avail No Golden Rule - 'do unto others as you'd have done to you' and this... might sound upright- of course... if you believed it too. All Rights Reserved * 2016 - Cherie Nolan

15

You do it a little at a time. You start a holocaust at 5:30 am, over your sausage and instant coffee. You do it with your small hatred and your snide comments--your prideful looks at the ***** man with no shoes. You do it in one moment, by not calling your dying brother over childhood trivialities. You do it by gassing the goldfish, flushing love down the toilet; clogging the sewers with your hatred and malevolence. You watch the green grass die and the ants drown, while you smile over your newspaper, and plot your next hostile takeover. You did it when you punched the dog, and pinched the child. You do it when you smile. You're a mean one Mr. Finch, Mrs. Jones, Mr. Smith. But guess what? You are dying alone. Every day, every second, and the moon and the sun and the stars celebrate your demise and so do I. You've never lost any thing. To loose, you must be found. You have to have a bit of gamble in you. You don't. You're as useless as an eel in a quiche.

0

Oct 31, 2023

Oct 31, 2023 at 10:51 PM UTC

thomas-w-case

I See Monsters Eating Quiche

You do it a little at a time. You start a holocaust at 5:30 am, over your sausage and instant coffee. You do it with your small hatred and your snide comments--your prideful looks at the ***** man with no shoes. You do it in one moment, by not calling your dying brother over childhood trivialities. You do it by gassing the goldfish, flushing love down the toilet; clogging the sewers with your hatred and malevolence. You watch the green grass die and the ants drown, while you smile over your newspaper, and plot your next hostile takeover. You did it when you punched the dog, and pinched the child. You do it when you smile. You're a mean one Mr. Finch, Mrs. Jones, Mr. Smith. But guess what? You are dying alone. Every day, every second, and the moon and the sun and the stars celebrate your demise and so do I. You've never lost any thing. To loose, you must be found. You have to have a bit of gamble in you. You don't. You're as useless as an eel in a quiche.

58

This a witch hunt, they did say I was a witch Perfect the kitty purrs, wanting to rip me to shreds You know... Youre not strong enough It echos in my mind, the words to hear only This a witch hunt, they did say I was a witch Man just burn the ***** Man.... Just burn the *****

0

Feb 14, 2016

Feb 14, 2016 at 1:52 PM UTC

I fight myself in front of casting hexes

This a witch hunt, they did say I was a witch Perfect the kitty purrs, wanting to rip me to shreds You know... Youre not strong enough It echos in my mind, the words to hear only This a witch hunt, they did say I was a witch Man just burn the ***** Man.... Just burn the *****

9

there comes a slow, soft afternoon pace and a dinner bell i sweat, jogging, to the table, soaked with the cherry blood red fruit of my labor. when my meal is served, there’s grease in the pan and my hands are black as coal, so it lathers my throat and turns sore. unfixable bellyaches and frequent ***** my hairbrush combs knots of dead hair, clumps in my fists and the mother is a cross old women, apathetic and unforgiving she touches with a stonewall embrace she tells me i am worth something, and then she tells me i am not as i scrub the dirt from every single step she takes and wash my entire mouth with soap after every word that i slip up and say. yet there is a place inside the trees where there are fawns and fairies and peacemakers and the meadow sings almost humanly with a beautiful flute and a distant harp and that is where the light is the brightest. there are no cold, empty corners hidden by the dusty rust of time there are only staircases leading to the sky and bounding rabbits and seashells nowhere near the sea, but in this house, the cruel and unforgiving mother owns me and i cannot fathom escape in this fit of naivety.

0

Jan 7, 2024

Jan 7, 2024 at 8:52 PM UTC

LVjKnKS1608

there is a tunnel at the end of the light

there comes a slow, soft afternoon pace and a dinner bell i sweat, jogging, to the table, soaked with the cherry blood red fruit of my labor. when my meal is served, there’s grease in the pan and my hands are black as coal, so it lathers my throat and turns sore. unfixable bellyaches and frequent ***** my hairbrush combs knots of dead hair, clumps in my fists and the mother is a cross old women, apathetic and unforgiving she touches with a stonewall embrace she tells me i am worth something, and then she tells me i am not as i scrub the dirt from every single step she takes and wash my entire mouth with soap after every word that i slip up and say. yet there is a place inside the trees where there are fawns and fairies and peacemakers and the meadow sings almost humanly with a beautiful flute and a distant harp and that is where the light is the brightest. there are no cold, empty corners hidden by the dusty rust of time there are only staircases leading to the sky and bounding rabbits and seashells nowhere near the sea, but in this house, the cruel and unforgiving mother owns me and i cannot fathom escape in this fit of naivety.

30