"assumes" poems
You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep---
White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?
Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.
The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,
Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?
Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.
Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily
Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.
I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,
Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,
The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.
Where are you going
That you **** breath like mileage?
Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit---
An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile.
No, it is not fatal.
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She assumes I don't care
And all that she does
Ends up in cruel despair.
She puts up a show
And buys me a bow
Until she feels empty, sad and low.
In a box that I chose
That smells of orchids so special
Lies the bow, like a rose.
For all that she ponders yet knows not
The times that we've spat and fought
Will remain as memories that shan't rot.
For on a pedestal she stands
In my heart, deep and within
'Cause I'm an angel in her hands.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
'Tis indeed a shame that Americans are seen as so Materialistic,
not because of the sickening nature of our Consumerism and One-upsmanship,
but because we have now lost sight of the original meaning of Materialistic.
It once meant (and still in Philosophy means)
that if one is Materialistic,
one assumes that the matter of the universe
is all there is to the universe.
In this sense, many Americans are not Materialistic
because they believe in some para-natural God/Satan duality
neither of which exist in the Material realm.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
So big this tiny hole opens up
And the sound blasts out so abrupt
The stench suffocates the breathing
Water comes to eyes everywhere
as **** methane fills the air
No one wants to be blamed for
the toxic air un-freshener
Everyone assumes its the ***
and moves away from her
I try to keep a straight face until
I get off the train
Then locate a rest room
and check for stains
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
Each lover has some theory of his own
About the difference between the ache
Of being with his love, and being alone:
Why what, when dreaming, is dear flesh and bone
That really stirs the senses, when awake,
Appears a simulacrum of his own.
Narcissus disbelieves in the unknown;
He cannot join his image in the lake
So long as he assumes he is alone.
The child, the waterfall, the fire, the stone,
Are always up to mischief, though, and take
The universe for granted as their own.
The elderly, like Proust, are always prone
To think of love as a subjective fake;
The more they love, the more they feel alone.
Whatever view we hold, it must be shown
Why every lover has a wish to make
Some kind of otherness his own:
Perhaps, in fact, we never are alone.
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There's a certain condition known as losing connection
involving people, places and things of strong affection.
The phenomenon is marked by one or two parting to separate ways
and a feeling of disconnection is experienced highlighting the days.
Where the people concerned, in the past, were once close together,
are all now, due to a lack of communication, more apart than ever.
Once good friends, close relatives, associates and even lovers
have all fallen victim to the malady of estrangement as others.
We should never underestimate the effect of the passage of time
especially when augmented with distance that determines clime.
In this case the distance between the minds and hearts of all those who
have so drifted apart from each other no longer holding the same view.
It may also be a case where people have outgrown or transcended themselves
and do not identify any more with what was once regarded as familiar delves.
The vicissitudes of life can also be a major cause and often very decisive factor
where on the stage of this world one assumes or takes the role of a different actor.
Who knows to what degree a situation can change or influence the course of events
and leaves those alienated, that were once close together, now with different intents.
Another very obvious aspect is the physical departure because of death
of all those who, in this life, virtually shared the same space and breath.
It has also been written that, the soul of a person gone, sometimes tries to revive
or contact those whom it had most connection with while it was physically alive.
The same can be said of some of those who are still in their earthly ****** form
and cannot cope without the assurance or connection that before was the norm.
__________________________________
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
The wise head becomes a fool sans money,
While the goon with quid around to throw
Assumes a sage - the mayor of phony county.
Why should the prince of letters anyhow
Be in want - lacking in substance great,
Flourishing instead in some wretched state?
Yet the politicians who run down the economy
And men of baser thoughts that make heaven's
Hallowed eyes drop tears by their steamy
**** businesses and those of unholy deals,
Do seem to prosper much in this awkward
World,with those who daily vaunt at the Lord.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 4:11 AM UTC
When I say I’m a nudist
I am told I’m disgusting
But then, I keep forgetting
It’s that “people don’t **** thing.
And people don’t ****
And nobody ever craps.
They just keep their napkin
Tucked safely in their laps.
They don’t belch, not ever,
And nobody picks their nose.
It’s the way of polite folks
And that’s just how it goes.
Well, let me remind you
Where you were born,
And where you came out of,
And that you were shorn
Of any kind of clothing
Both mother and the child.
You were born like the animals
Both domestic and wild.
You are naked one assumes
When you shower your body
So, please quit acting like
****** is something shoddy.
Your parent put such madness
Inside of your innocent head;
Things like getting re-dressed
Each night when you go to bed.
The insanity of Europeans
Who came to American soil
And wore LAYERS of clothing
In the heat while they toiled.
Then they went to other lands
And warped the people there
With the strange brand of madness
They had been taught to share.
They were taught to be ashamed
Of what god had given them;
That their private parts were evil
And turned you into a golem.
And when asked for a reason
For this weird kind of crazy
They started talking about god
When their logic got all hazy.
So you “people don’t **** folks
Can just kiss my naked ***
That thinking might work for you
But for me it won’t pass
For anything but brainwash
And the programming of the sick.
So wake the hell up, the rest of you
And get on the natural stick.
If I want to be naked all day
And you want to wear clothing
That should be each of our choice;
A personal ‘go or don’t go’ thing.
I mean, for a perfect example here
Think of laundry bill savings
So, you can just stop harassing
And gnashing and raving.
Brent Kincaid
4/12/2015
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
My hero stands,
Firmly against his enemy,
He assumes a fighters stance,
And he focuses his energy
A clashing, violent dance,
Erupts and the earth starts trembling
Combat is his purpose,
He's the master of his trade,
A happy man, on the surface,
But he's got a monster in a cage
He fights when he has to,
Always for greater good,
He taught me to forgive my foes,
Because I know that he would
His name is Son Goku,
And he lives in my soul
A hero, unspoken
Embodiment of light, as a whole
He'd come back from the dead,
To save us all again
We'd all be in his debt,
But it's no price to him
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
The psychics were breathing smoke,
rummaging through my roommates collection of abstract art,
they told me what my favorite Modest Mouse album was,
they told me about my personality,
I told them I was a psychic,
they told me to **** off.
Everyone assumes an original identity
in the self-inflicted apocalypse
provided by that old friend, alcohol.
Kevin was the smooth-talking,
drink-mixing extraordinaire.
Kara was the cynic.
Shawna was the kindhearted.
Evan was sober.
Tyler was in and out.
I was the ******* that took a party pill,
bounced off everyone with a handshake
and an apology.
We **** ourselves to resurrect,
piece together the discordance,
the chaos,
the girls.
While the psychics were breathing smoke,
while Kevin was collapsing,
while everyone was worried about me,
all I could say was,
"This is the happiest night of my life,
and that depresses the hell outta' me."
I longed for the sirens in the distance,
I took another drink,
I longed for renewed innocence,
I took another drink,
I longed for someone to lay beside me,
I took another drink,
it was finally enough.
I took off my shirt,
made war with the remnants of stability,
of sanity,
told my friends I loved them,
and hoped that my time ended in sync
with the sunrise.
Sep 18, 2010
Sep 18, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
Montgomery! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
“Unknown the region of his birth,”
The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may ’scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
The record of his deathless name.
The Patriot’s and the Poet’s frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
‘That’ will arise, though Empires fall.
The lustre of a Beauty’s eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more, the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover’s strain;
For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:
She died, but ne’er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour’s laurels ne’er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar’d Pride remain.
What, though the sculpture be destroy’d,
From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy’d,
By those, whose virtues claim reward.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;
Some few who ne’er will be forgot
Shall burst the ******* of the grave.
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A frizzy blue black shadow, there you hold,
curtaining off the door to the pleasure garden,
in my frenzied day dreams, it seems like everglades
where your chiseled alabaster legs smugly join in.
It would take many shapes in my hazy dreams
when my ***** imagination, for you is in an overdrive,
at times it's a soft winged butterfly flitting around your *****
intermittently sitting on your thighs, inching slowly upwards,
how it takes my breath away! in each of it's tickling move.
Excited I ogle, and just then it assumes the look of a face,
with such inviting succulent lips, I fully lose my patience
at first the kiss is soft, a fervency takes over,then, I slip in to a trance
erotically charged and ecstatic, I hear you moan,when I explode!
കാമ നിഴല്നാടകം
------------------------------------
കുനുകുനെ കരിനീലയാമൊരു
നിഴല് അവിടെ നിനക്കുണ്ട്
സുഖകവാടത്തിനു മൂടുപടമൊന്നിട്ടപോലെ
എന് ഭ്രമ ഭരിതമാം പകല്സ്വപ്നങ്ങളി
ലതു നീര് നിലമായിമാറുന്നു.
നിന് വെണ്ണക്കല് കടഞ്ഞ
കാലുകള് ചേരുന്നൊരിടം.
എന് ഭാവന യുടെ കാമ സ്വപ്നങ്ങള്
നിന്നെത്തേടിപ്പായവേ
എന് അവ്യക്തസ്വപ്നങ്ങളില്
അതു, രൂപാന്തരങ്ങള്തേടുന്നു.
ചിലനേരംനിന്അരക്കെട്ട്ചുറ്റി
യൊരുചിത്രശലഭംപറക്കുന്നു
ഇടയിടയില് നിന് തുട പറ്റിയിരുന്നു
മേലോട്ട്മെല്ലെനീങ്ങുന്നു.
അത് മെല്ലെ ഇക്കിളിയിട്ട്മേല്പ്പോട്ടു
നീങ്ങാന് തുടങ്ങവേ
എന് ശ്വാസം നിന്നുപോവുന്നു!
ഉന്മാദിയായിഞാനവിടെ നോക്കുന്നു,
അവിടെയൊരുമുഖമല്ലേകാണ്മൂ
മദ ഭരിതമാ ചുണ്ടുകള് കാണുമ്പൊള്
ഞാന് എന്നെത്തന്നെ മറന്നു
മൃദു ചുംബനം, ലഹരി പകരുന്ന മുത്തം
പിന്നെ,എല്ലാം മറന്നമയക്കം!
രതിലഹരിയില് നിന് വിതുമ്പല് കേള്ക്കെ
ഞാനുമൊരുകാമ വിസ്ഫോടനമറിയുന്നു
(In Malayalam Translation)
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
A man lonely and so cold,
Trying hard to grasp an aura
He assumes to trust to not reveal the hidden,
Until unknown souls spot the flaw
Abruption,
Cowardly thoughts he fails to hold back,
Paranoid, so paranoid his nerves become barbed,
His mind darkened as he's blinded,
His words cruelly reversing any remaining trust,
His screams so beyond chilling they sear the mere
Love left in a heart
Though only so few understand to not blame,
To not blame a man ensconced by a cold world,
Only trying to survive with a fire he himself sadly creates
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
I never come here, you understand,
I'm of a higher social class,
But my washer dryer has broken down
And has left me without a single gown.
My dishwasher works fine and my wine rack is full,
But still, expensive washer dryers can breakdown
And make a lady frown.
I've got someone coming to fix it
(We have our washer dryer insured),
I should really get a new one but it's been really rather good...
It's always washed away the stains of fancy food.
Fellow launderer please understand -
as you look rather tough -
I won't judge you if you don't judge,
So let us wash our clothes in unspoken harmony
And make my inconvenience as unawkward as it can be.
But to my shame my snobbish mind assumes the worst;
That every rushing washer
Is thrusting clothes into the machines hurriedly,
Because they've all been on a killing spree.
Now the drying is almost done,
I can leave you with your dreary woes of working life and sleepless nights,
And go right home to dispose of that gun.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
Clocks are all around me.
They tell me; time of day.
They are true and make me free,
And tell me it’s OK.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The clock in my room,
Waits for me to seek.
“He will listen.” It assumes.
And through the noise it speaks:
Tick tock tick.
All throughout the night.
Tick tock tick tock.
Also in the light.
Beautiful it sounds.
It keeps me from despair.
And through the ups and through the downs,
My bedroom clock is there.
The tower rings aloud.
Its message; clear as day.
It is glad and it is proud,
And we love to hear it say:
Ding **** ding ****
So loud it sings its song.
**** **** ding ****
And we sing along.
It is so uplifting.
We’re ready to tackle the day.
It keeps us all away from drifting.
And we go about our way.
But my wristwatch is my friend.
It’s always on my arm.
On my wristwatch I depend.
And I keep it from all harm.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It loves it when I listen.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
When I follow I do glisten.
I really should listen more.
There’s so much I am missing,
For even the simple rhythm of the sound,
Keeps me in thanksgiving.
My wristwatch loves me so.
It waits for me to hear.
Its love for me it wants to show.
For its message; it is clear.
Oh! I neglect it often.
But when I stop and listen
To what so often I've forgotten,
My heart begins to soften.
“William Oh William.
I’ve been waiting for you.”
It knows what I have become,
But its love stays true.
“If I only listened more,
If I only loved you more!”
“That’s OK William, I will always love you.
Your sins are paid for.”
Patiently He waits,
For me go to Him.
And gladly does He give His grace,
And I do sing His hymns.
“You keep me in line,
What would I do without you?”
“William, It’s OK. It’s going to be fine.
Now, here’s what I want you to do...”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
God is all around me.
I sin, and He loves me still.
He is true and makes me free!
And He waits for me to listen to His will.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
*"As the same fire assumes different shapes
When it consumes objects differing in shape,
So does the one Self take the shape
Of every creature in whom he is present."*
(Katha Upanishad II.2.9)
*"As the rivers flowing east and west
Merge in the sea and become one with it,
Forgetting they were separate rivers,
So do all creatures lose their separateness
When they merge at last into pure Being.
There is nothing that does not come from him.
Of everything he is the inmost Self.
He is the truth; he is the Self supreme.
You are that Shvetaketu, you are that."*
(Chandogya Upanishad IV.10.1-3)
*I don't understand,
Why, in this land,*
Where these sacred
scriptures were written,
Were so many religions born--
*I don't understand,
How, in this land,*
Were differences encouraged,
When the backbone of all life
Always was recognized as liberation--
The acknowledgement
Of all different religions, castes, creeds,
Really broke the deal you know...
Imagine, if all the cultures were mixed
Instead of being separated, unconnected, segregated;
And churned into a liberal philosophy
The Philosophy of Liberation (read: Moksha)
We'd have prevented so many wars,
All fought under the cloak of differences and disparities;
We could have averted
So much bloodshed,
So many innocent screams--
And these shudders down your spine right now?
They would be the product of fiction;
Not the echoes of cruel reality...
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Gently I pick up the packet.
Put a cigarette between my cracked lips.
Fire.
Start to inhale.
I feel how the air is ****** out of my pure
lungs to suddenly be replaced with new filthy air.
I rapidly feel how the nicotine fill my brain and then
seeps out into the bloodstream and slowly assumes my veins.
Like a drug or like falling in love.
First everything at once, then slowly.
Breathing the smoke in to keep living but it slowly ends my life,
and it will hurt, hurt like hell.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
969
He who in Himself believes—
Fraud cannot presume—
Faith is Constancy’s Result—
And assumes—from Home—
Cannot perish, though it fail
Every second time—
But defaced Vicariously—
For Some Other Shame—
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Hazel wants to put off going home, she
Loves Paris, and being with her maid Dunne
Has somehow made it seem to her that much
More enjoyable, much more than she thought
When she started out from London, but each
Day now, each moment, seems to bring her to
A closeness she has never had with a
Maid before. She watches now as Dunne sits
Beside her outside the restaurant on
The Champs Elysees, the way she holds the
Cup, the head to one side, the eyes focused,
So aware. The clothes she had bought her for
The trip to Paris fit her well, and she
Looks after them as if she were afraid
They might spoil in the noonday sun, folds them
At night so precisely, so carefully.
Hazel sips her coffee, the noon sunshine
Warms her. Dunne examines the menu, tries
To understand the French written there, her
Finger running down the list. Hazel wants
To place her hand over Dunne’s, feel it, sense
The life there in the pulse. When Dunne helped her
Bath the night before, her hands were so soft,
So gentle, her attention to detail,
Her touch. Hazel sighs. Less of a maid now,
At least she sees her less so, seems more a
Companion, yes, that’s it, she says to
Herself, companion. The word seems odd
In her mouth, like saying Doris instead
Of Dunne. A class thing, she assumes, that seems
To separate, putting people into
Different boxes. Dunne sips her coffee
And looks at Hazel. The eyes seem to drink
Her in. Hazel shyly smiles. If her friend
Margaret had not let her down at the
Last moment she would not have brought Dunne; she’d
Have made love to her Margaret in the bed
At night rather than lie there watching Dunne
And listening to her breathing. Yet she’s
Glad now that Margaret hadn’t come, the
Relationship had grown stale. Now there is
Dunne. Fresh, alive, sitting there beside her,
Just a few inches away, bringing a
New dimension to her life, and pushing
To the back of her mind, the desire
Awaking there, a want, and muttering
Silently to herself, looking into
Dunne’s eyes, help me to resist, gazing at
The lips, wanting to touch and to be kissed.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
In those days all thinking took place in his heart.
It had no favorite suburb, no shelter that was home,
immersed, as he was, in the Mojave of humanity,
memories of only former places through which he'd drifted.
Yes, there were women, storms of passion, brevity in bed.
Today, they only took him back in time,
reconstructing scenarios more of actions never taken.
Bedposts served as bivouacs for the nomad.
Here in this desert water assumes a circumstance,
the nomad becoming as fond of it as ambition.
Here silence need not be kept at bay, rather welcomed in,
though it looks down upon him in uncertainty.
Out there on the horizon he hears a sigh,
a mother tongue corresponding to his own.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
There is, one supposes, a certain nobility
In simply carrying on with the whole **** thing,
Though that assumes some epiphany,
Some clawing toward grace, or at least common decency.
He had, in some once upon a time,
Cast his lot with a better class of people, so to speak;
It had not ended well, though,
In line with how such things are resolved,
His fall not a spectacular, tempestuous thing,
But a gradual, veiled affair, not a fiery spectacle
With metaphorical medals cut away, epaulets stripped,
But a shaded silence, a shrouded yet palpable shunning.
And so he is here, in this fading little city
Perched forlornly on the banks of a nondescript little river,
Having taken an apartment above a pair of offices
(One occupied by a seemingly ancient and disinterested lawyer,
The other by an ostensible private investigator)
Which is sufficiently large and reasonably warm
Come the seemingly perpetual winter.
He lives, if not in such a manner
As he was once accustomed to, comfortably enough:
He has his practice, and an adjunct position
At the little cow college down the road in Alfred,
And there are the occasional women,
Sad divorcees marooned in this hill country,
Dewy-eyed undergraduates unable to discern
Suit coats that are a bit shabby and somewhat passe
(There is a haberdasher in Buffalo whose garments
Are in the neighborhood of up-to-snuff,
And he could certainly manage a trip
Down to New York for better tailoring,
Though he would be traveling in places and circles
Where he is not remembered fondly.)
Stepping outside, he encounter snowflakes,
Light and unprepossessing,
But he studies the sky anxiously, apprehensively
(One learns that he must pay Nature its due fealty in these climes,
And give into the primal, the instinctual)
For he knows what can transpire
When the wind blows off the big lake out west just so,
Turning innocuous flurries into a malevolent blankness,
Making the landscape inscrutable, alien, utterly terrifying.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
I enjoy sitting in coffee shops watching business men be busy
Drinking burnt coffee
Watching my leg hair grow
noticing that my pits stink
Watching people fight over booths that have an electric outlet to plug in their laptops
Which is funny because I'm writing this on my cell phone while everyone assumes I'm texting.
Well, at least I know that I'm not.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 11:01 AM UTC
Everyone assumes that
Us elite students in top schools
Are hardworking,
Morally upright people.
That we breeze through our work
And live life with a bright smile.
That's what they think.
They don't see
Our late nights, rushing assignments.
Copying each others' work hurriedly in the morning.
Feelings of inferiority, anger and jealousy consume us daily.
We're nothing more
Than ordinary people
Put on high pedestals.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
I cut a strange shadow
As if lit by candles
Deep in the dark corner
Where she sits me
Coughing offense
Three minute I must repent
Coughing violently
As if to cleanse some sin
Because she does not
Believe my phlegm
Little boy liar
Or at least she assumes
As she locks me in my room
Beneath a cold quiet moon
Do not come out
So I **** on the carpet
Puke green thing
Will be smelling
Very unclean
I’m always thirsty
I’m always lonely
Staring at the kids playing
While I am daydreaming
Of finding a home to be free in
I cannot say which I preferred
The brash beatings
Accompanied by my screaming
That soothed her seething rages
Almost completely
At least for that day
Or the weeks and months
Locked away
Despairing
To swallow once I swallowed twice
I jumped at a moments notice
One tap caused twitches
One loud yell
Caused more flinching
Someone once told me
They knew about the barbarity
Not exactly in those words
But years down the line
I wonder if at any time
They felt bad for letting me
Live like that
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 6:53 AM UTC