"backhanded" poems
And now my coffees cold
Your backhanded compliments are getting old
We got in a fight tonight
you stormed out
you kicked over my bike
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
I love the way you laugh.
It sounds like a dog throwing up.
I want to run my hands through your hair.
I bet it's as soft as a chinchilla's fur.
I love your height.
How it makes you look like you're the genetic product of Nick Jonas and a giraffe.
I love your eyes.
You're so full of **** that even your eyes are brown.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
Excuses, excuses - they'll come in a flood,
When you realize your actions have pushed me away.
Imagine! That I once considered you blood!
But I've had quite enough of the games that you play.
The switch came in stages, a gradual thing,
I first didn't notice; it wasn't too clear.
My perspective grew sharper with distance between,
Felt your backhanded words as they pin-pricked my ears.
You thought I wouldn't notice, would let it slip by,
Never gave me much credit, and that was your fault.
Wrapped your insults in jokes, like arsenic on rye,
And you thought all this time that you wouldn't be caught.
I don't know where you get it - this self-righteous act,
It's not as endearing as you think it to be.
You might take what you want, and then leave it at that,
But I'm telling you now: you'll get no more from me.
I don't know what has prompted you picking this fight.
They're pathetic, yet hurtful, these things that you say.
And I don't know where you think you've gotten the right
To take it out on me when you don't get your way.
For years, it's been happening - don't know how I missed
All the ways you controlled me; I answered to you.
Always did what you wanted, I'm realizing this;
The extent of the selfishness you put me through.
But it changed not too long ago, didn't it, dear?
Oh yes, I grew a spine, and things started to change.
And, oh, you didn't like what you started to hear.
My defying your wants nearly made you deranged.
People grow and they change; it's especially true
For me ever since I was finally free.
So how sad to discover it's not true for you,
You're the same as you were, and as you'll always be.
That's the person you are, who you've been since we met
And it never caused issues until days of late.
The things that you've said are things you will regret,
Because I have no room for your envy-fueled hate.
You've become quite the mean one - I'm sorry, it's true.
You're no longer the person to whom I could turn.
It's a shame (it's a **** shame), but yes, we are through.
And it will not be me who is nursing the burn.
Maybe one day you'll change, and we might reunite.
I'm not getting my hopes up - there's danger in that.
Until then, I hope you learn to treat people right,
Because no one desires to stand by a brat.
Maybe I am the first to address how you are,
But I won't be the last, and this, I can assure.
Your poignant self-righteousness won't get you far,
And I'm sorry - for your case, there isn't a cure.
So remember me now; you'll remember me then,
When you lose all those who used to stand at your side.
You'll remember the disrespect you showed your friend,
For alas, she won't be there, holding you as you cry.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Are you sound of mind?
Addicted to dandelions
like the ocean is to ice.
Wait outside the blood bank,
learn how to write dialogue
and make saccharin spines.
My journal is a tangle of spines,
keep an open mind
help me box up my ****** dialogue.
I’ve always been a fan of dandelions
etching paths along the river bank,
streams within the winter ice.
Buckets of camphor ice
relax the notches in spines
as we wait in line at the food bank.
Thoughts of jawbones on my mind,
the taste of dandelions
and organized pre-scripted dialogue.
Backhanded blue dialogue,
counting the vanilla crystals of ice
blowing the smell of cinnamon into floating dandelions.
My hands handle happiness spines
with the peace of mind
of money in the piggy bank.
Let's rob a bank
shooting quiet malleable dialogue
through an altered state of mind.
Your ribs are two sheets of ice
ivy wrapping around our intertwined spines
crumbly blowing breaths of dandelions.
Second hand dandelions
build up in the river bank
muddy trenches around spines
whisper outspoken blue green dialogue.
Three pounds of dry ice,
warm water vapour at the back of my mind
Store buy your dandelions, bear in mind
that the West Bank is covered in ice
and that spines speak their own muted dialogue.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Behind the eight ball
she sits.
Resigned.
From her pimp's
leash,
she's lead.
Deadweight, she feels
his ways and ills,
like cattle, that's branded.
Best she hustles,
or be backhanded.
Once molded,
she learns to light up
Big Daddy's cigar
and bring him his pie loaded.
More cabbage to fill his gold baggage.
Sometimes he spares a small leaf for her.
Though times she short, his fist takes sport.
And every night
she plays for the band
of her john's,
singing their song,
while a thousand ****** of light
inches along all wrong.
The nameless, faceless and most relentless
getting their fill.
A flower in her wails loves not fear.
However, Big Daddy's eyes are always near.
She knows better than to run
past the pasture gates
onto verdant fields,
free as a bird,
without a home, money or vocation
and ever so fearful of Big Daddy's gun.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
As she remembers those first tears.
A Big Daddy's indoctrination.
It started off on social media,
a whim
a fantasy went wrong.
Three nights her body violated,
Big Daddy's cavalry,
descending on her picnic,
wax and whips,
a thousand ****** of might,
and the scream of the night.
Coldcocked.
Say hello to the new girl on the block.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
Her youth robbed as the days morph into years.
Like a blur.
The guise, the lure, the drugs, the fear.
The trap.
Eighteen young became twenty-four old.
A lost puppy to her folks back home.
And every lost night
she struts her Prada dress a little higher
Big Daddy has a buyer.
Logan Robertson
7/27/2018
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
There will always be dark of night,
It is a common human plight.
Often it's hard to move throughout the black,
But what you'll find if you keep moving,
A kindling of light,
Never leave behind a dream.
*I miss you
I miss you too*
Life will knock you down,
It seems to be the only thing it really knows,
But in the face of doubt,
Move about,
You will come to find,
It's hard to keep inside the night.
*May I still hold her when the sun dips well bellow the sea
Tell me lord, may I still praise her if there is dark?*
In times of doubt you must stay strong,
Far away from backhanded thoughts,
Never let love waver,
Reinforce it with iron arms,
Be calm with the winds of night,
Condemn this mortal spite.
*Never doubt that I am here,
I will hold you safe from the tendrils of fear.*
But once it's found,
You fear losing this light,
The piece of love you found,
Within the blinded world of now,
Don't be worried
For if you worry it is destined to leave.
I love you,
I love you too.*
Mar 20, 2025
Mar 20, 2025 at 8:44 AM UTC
I don’t know you well enough
or I’d read you this poem.
I don’t know you well enough,
though your quite handsome.
I don’t know you well enough
for you to care about my interests,
I don’t know you well enough —
we haven’t reached that level yet.
I don’t know you well enough,
but if I did I wouldn’t want to.
I don’t know you well enough,
please keep playing elusive.
I like your life, but
I don’t know you well enough
to like your instagrams —
it could seem stalker-ish.
We’ve talked about dinner,
but I don’t know when
or if we’ll actually go.
I don’t know you well enough.
I don’t know you well enough,
but text you regardless,
you invite me backhanded
to your friends' plans.
I don’t know you well enough,
to hold your glance,
you buy me a beer,
my hands fold between my legs.
I don’t know you well enough,
but I know when your drunk.
Your friends leave
and I give you a ride home.
I don’t know you well enough,
but you invite me in,
your cat treats me like
a familiar friend.
I don’t you well enough,
but I know when we share spit,
it just lubricates comments
on our horniness.
I don’t know you well enough,
but I know your apartment —
your couch is too squishy
and your bed is too close.
I don’t know you well enough.
I ask if *** will ruin this,
but don't know what this is.
I don’t know you well enough,
but I sleep in your bed.
Your rolling-over motion
was disappointing,
but not unexpected.
I STILL don’t know you well enough,
but I know three unanswered texts
means your not interested
in telling me.
Or perhaps,
I don’t know you well enough.
I don’t know you well enough,
but I’m getting to know me
and I know that naiive
isn’t who I want to be.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
My skin color
Doesn't make me free
You can't assume because
Someone looks white
They are treated equally
Being white doesn't
Make me privileged
I worked hard to get
To where I am
I am not as "white" as I look
I am Hispanic
Which means that
Behind the scenes my
Family is not as
Well put together
As we may look
My parents are divorced
We're not poor but
They're struggling to
Get their kids a college education
I am a female
I didn't always have the
Rights I do now
For many years
My kind couldn't vote
For many years
Women were forced
Into a gender role
Being a female
Doesn't mean I'm weak
I am not straight
But also not a lesbian
Until this year
I didn't have the luxury of
Getting married to
Who I wanted where I wanted
People still don't understand
They think I'm confused
I can pray it away
You know what
Not even your
Backhanded religion
Can save me
I am not even
Safe in my own mind
There is a
Constant war
My depression and anxiety
Is eating away at me
You look at me
You see white
My people
We have
Always had to fight
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
Foster, what family? Lower class, dream of vacation
******** what trickles down, affecting a life situation
White to Blue Collar; a rebuild or invasion?
Millions inside the boxes of convention
Justified superficial, backhanded salutations
Refute Love, proposed as mankind’s invention
Pulled by a string of instant gratification
Finding freedom’s temporary
If ever, long term locations
Constricted, system of classifications
The socially admissible connections,
Not to mention gangs of corrections
Flowing through the previous, my own generation
For the infinite hours
One after the other
Trade integrity for the illusion of power
Not all those with a gun should be considered a coward
Face the souls sold on Wall Street,
Remember those from Twin Towers
Ground zero, abandoned. Now bare, desolate
The idea of terrorism denied, while some wrestle it
Rationales dislocate, post hairline fracture
Frontal lobe imposter, posing in rapture
As if talent, love, or hate could ever be captured
Held at gun point, then forgotten years after
My children will one day look to me for the answer
What’s society, this twisted maze we live in?
I will gaze in their eyes with the same exact question
And don’t ever allow me again not to mention
Real criminals can’t learn from minute or life-long detentions
Some incapable of that level of retention
As our battered soldiers forever sleep at attention
Politically correct, tongues in consistent hesitation
Kiss police *** only to go to the station
Before the thought of who signed the citation
Treated as if it were a felony violation
Our basic rights according to our nation
Arizona & Co for minority elimination
Die fighting the statute of poverty’s limitations
vi.i.xi
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:22 AM UTC
First off, a very backhanded congratulations to you, madam
Next, how dare you speak of that which you say you have never known?
You knew it with me and I knew you did but **** me
It never occurred to me that you thought it was as common as you make it.
Love?
Lies.
Love lies.
Love lies dead in the pool of blood next to the gun you used to **** it.
The blood is mine and I hope that you drink it all
Why wouldn't you? You already took everything else of mine with you.
So cliché, isn't it?
The way I'm acting must come off as melodramatic...
But the most cliché thing of all nowadays is
Saying, "I love you"...
... because you, like many other people, don't mean it.
The only love I've ever seen you give was to yourself.
It's called vanity, honey.
Now, cheer up. He's calling you joyfully
"Knowing" that you are "his"
Smile so that he hears it,
But don't clean up: he can't see your make up running.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
I miss how we were the only ones alike.
We were the only two of that caliber, and you knew it.
Electricity flew between your lips and mine.
We were beautiful.
I miss how our voices pierced the heavy silence around us, and tangled up with one another.
I miss how we preformed for no more than one another.
I miss how your melodies kissed my face as they glided about our space.
I miss our shared breath.
I miss my voice moving in perfect time with yours; curving up to meet your highs, and dipping down to brush against your lows.
I miss the way you would look at me when I took control and owned the song-- with that sly, crooked grin.
The accidental physical touch
The longing when our time ran out
The lingering of your voice, and that crystal gaze burning into my core
The teasing and the backhanded compliments
Never too sure of what's work and what's play
But I'm sure of this:
There is a certain intimacy that comes with throwing your heart and soul into the void, and hoping it doesn't fall flat.
There's an even deeper intimacy that follows when you meet another voice, and you move and reach and swell and growl and throw everything you have into that one note.
Because without passion, we are dead.
Breathe into me.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 5:55 PM UTC
Soccer is the sport
Which my heart belongs to
Kicking a ball into a goal
Under a sky so blue
Yesterday a game
Was played quite nicely
Until the end
When we became less feisty
A kickoff to start
The beginning of the game
Not many spectators
As it's not of fame
Trying to get the ball
Like a good player should
I get backhanded in the face
Hard
Knocked to the ground as I should
The refs call no fouls
As they favor the other team
It made me so mad
Since my lip had begun to bleed
Further into the game
The ball comes towards me
Nails me in the stomach
Making me want to scream
The halftime whistle blows
We get off the field
To go over the game plan
And take a time to chill
Getting back on the field
Determined to tie the game
We get the kickoff
The ball our claim
So ways into the game
Another player crashes into me
I fall to the ground in pain
Because I twisted my knee
I'm taken off the field
Another player goes in my place
But it didn't really matter
The game was over with grace
It wasn't our best game
But we've certainly had worse
Next time we'll score
And hopefully, no one will get hurt
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC
For as long as I can remember, I've heard the whispers. The silent 'but's, the sidelong sighs, and the backhanded compliments that go in smooth and rip out ragged.
I believe everyone has undeniable self-truths. One of my truths is that I am fat. It took me twenty years to come to the conclusion that this truth was not something to be ashamed or afraid of. Unfortunately, my mother doesn't agree.
It's not wholly her fault; she was raised to be ashamed of her body and the bodies of women in general. We were taught that tolerance equals love but not necessarily acceptance. My body was something to tolerate. I loved my body in the way I loved my pesky little brother, mostly because I was told I must.
My mother's body language whispered to my pre-teen insecurities, "You're beautiful...but", or "I'm not saying you have to lose weight...but", or "You're perfect the way God made you, I just wish that...". She taught me to be ashamed and afraid of the way my body was developing, "I wish you hadn't filled out so fast, that you wouldn't wear that shirt because it brings attention to the fact that you have the chest of a twenty something at thirteen." "That skirt shows too much skin and that shirt was cut too low, don't wear a tank top because the boys will think of you as **** first and intelligent second."
There's nothing wrong with being the fat smart girl, although I have noticed that it's never 'smart fat girl' because being fat is evidently more important than intelligence. Being fat isn't bad. Being smart is a super good thing. The problem arises when the fat smart girl is taught that she must whisper. When you don't tell that girl that being beautiful has nothing to do with what others think of you and that she is absolutely allowed to have an opinion of her own, she won't find her voice until she can't hear yours anymore.
I have whispered all my life. I don't wear brightly colored nail polish so that you won't notice that my hands stutter. I whisper with my body language. I whispered "no" when he went too far. I whispered when I wanted to scream.
And I wondered why no one ever heard me.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Your cruel words are cursory
Mean less than null to me
Don’t need a PhD
Learnt more in nursery
Sweet song of ‘helping me’
No more than sophistry
Pick out the forgery
Lies with no artistry
Flowing in, eyeless grin
Sugary medicine
Gaslighting, infighting
Snarl under strobe-lighting
Saccharine blathering
Indolent flattering
Backhanded compliments
Heard without inner sense
I reject totally
Self-slighting sorcery
Callous affrontery
Bankrupting bursary
I have observed more
Preserved more
Have learned more
Deserve more
Have value
Don't argue
Can trust me
I must be
Enough being
just, me
So hear me,
my dear me,
coz now we agree
I am worthy
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 5:01 AM UTC
My how my muse desires you.Deeper you are is it your insanity.
Is it mine. Intoxicating. Born
Ouside dimensions you emit a constant hum or is it me the antenna born to your freakuency.
Every answer is a question. My inquisition.
Raw as a flicking lash..subtle as a midnight whisp.
Irish eyes awash with irony. You swiftly pull my pathos a querry in constant posture.
You are a devine girl/woman
Neither young nor old ...a vessel,a wonderous curiosity. Hannah you are what ?.
An ovation of thunder?
A Dickensonian verse ?
An ancient curse ?
A raven ?
POE ?
Bitter...Sweet enigma.
A sand siren self aware
You have my full attention every sultry deed.
God I feel the tide draw ill.
Against my will.
The mirage persists even to the touch.jagged rocks a starboard aching need a larboard. Simply Hannah.
But sad to say, I have seen you before sitting on beached and rotting vessel ashore arms oustretched your sisters have sung that
Sweet beguiling song to me before.I have surrenderd and run my boat ashore
At times turned the rudder and put my back to the breezes
Your song.
Your smile.a reincarnation
An ill wind sweet stench of forbidden. Solitary lilac standing tall beneath a waning moon..sweet
A portrait.
Succubus.
Cloaked in plain sight you are open as the sphinx. Too young to be this ancient too wise to be this.Hannah.
Brash as brass knuckles backhanded on bruised cheek. Soft as overspun cotton candy.
Add water and stir girl
All around the world girl
Proof positive that god has a wicked
Sense of humour.
Beautifull
Hannah.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 3:55 AM UTC
She tells warm lies through lips cool as frost,
while her eyes cast frigid glares.
Her backhanded barbs, sharp as steel,
strike like ice crystals in your heart.
Infidelity coats upon her like a sheen of ice.
Beauty and slippery deceit, rolled into one.
And yet, you stand, as a man made of snow,
not truly seeing, not speaking out.
You slowly die, waiting for her to thaw.
A snowball in Hades stands a better chance,
than you, to win her heart.
For within her veins runs soiled slush
and her soul is an Arctic wind.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 6:24 PM UTC
About 4 years into the friendship, or whatever it had by that stage become, during a chat on our Internet **** preferences
over badly-filtered Americanos
in the UCD student cafe, I said to her
" I think I enjoyed our friendship more when we used to get coffee and just laugh for twenty minutes. "
And after a half second of unusual silence from her, those pools
of ever-renewing blue eyes of hers almost incisions
into my consciousness, I added" That was pretty unique."
And then I laughed unbound, and she almost shrugged
and definitely smirked as if to say "this is where I am now, it took some time for me to realise but it's where I've always been."
Unapologetic, as only she could seem to be.
And it was, like any tryst, fling or abandoned half-romance is, utterly unique. Half on the way
to becoming something we were going to hang on to and definitely regret
and half-stopped, sulking out of a puddle,
dead damp weight created by the differences we made ourselves
for the other to behold and dismantle.
The immediate was meant for us, first the attraction, then the disgust, then the despair, then the cursing off, then round to the intrigue all over again.
She remained the great question mark of my undergraduate years. Heartaches after her were equally demeaning, but far more easily explained.
You know you've found someone irreplaceable when they tell things you really shouldn't know,
things shoved up in boxes for years, things too unformed to be really caught sounding out, in the moments after your first kiss.
And every clever undergraduate will tell you how negative all connotations of "irreplaceable" are.
And yet these are the backhanded good graces,
the immeasurable gifts that memory serves
I wear this like a wound I can find wry mirth at the very sight of,
I have learned all this from her without her ever intending
These memories are indented in a music box with an imitation sacred heart all mine
distempered by the candid lines of a girl who never wanted religion, divulged somewhere in our seat of learning.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
yes,
i look like my mother.
but i feel the need to remind you
with a swift chair to the face
(i think that'll get the point across, don't you?)
that i look very much like my father.
i don't give a single ****
what your last name is
that you're my mom's
cousin
you can shove that snotty
backhanded
comment
up your ***
mitchell.
i have no relation
to that name
despite my blood
despite my nose
that looks so much like your side
you are not one side of a family
you are one side of a war
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
grown too big for my britches,
I run my fat, fat mouth until I
look like a fool--a happy one.
flirting up a storm with his friends,
antagonizing my brother, my friend,
until she yells, and he kicks my ***
I went for a hug, and he kicked my *** (!) physically pinning me, I can't move
I rolled him over once, at least I got that, and he later apologized for be a ****
I mean, he's got three inches
fifty pounds of muscle, and
actual fighting
training on me
How long could I really last?
I am a woman, I am weaker.
Kate told me that in Nepal, the men backhand the women and children, very easily, and she was backhanded for not remembering how to say her name in Nepallian. That must feel awful, to have a feeling of power handed over to big fists because of strength, not money.
I watch the trees, I break a beer bottle on accident
I flash the cars over the bridge, I wasn't even that
drunk, I am just sad--very tired of feeling nothing.
It's just sibling rivalry, and we'll both get over it.
my family makes a tall crowd;
my mother is 5'10", the shortest
we were raised to party, hard, and we entertain, flamboyantly
we were raised to clean it up, efficiently, to take responsibility
I might be a fool, but at least I'm going to be happy later.
That's not guaranteed though, I am sure of that, certainly
He might be too jaded to be as successful as he could be.
That's not guaranteed though, I am sure of that, certainly.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
I once loved a girl from Japan
She told me the two words of her name mean
“Aimed for Balance”
She taught me how to write my name in Katakana letters.
She taught me how to read past sarcasm
And backhanded comments.
I taught her how to read American literature
And how to say “Roller Skates”.
She taught me how to learn with my emotions,
And I taught her how to learn with her body.
I would tell her, “I love you”.
She would laugh, and with those brown eyes of hers,
Look into my own and say , “Are you drunk?”
Her hands, pale and smooth like paper,
Would often find themselves entwined in my own, long and strong,
Like a summer’s warmth embracing a bright day.
She was my moon, and
She always called me her “Shining Sun”
But I had to let her go.
She cried tears that fell like snow,
But I could only feel a rising heat
Behind my cheeks.
I tried to tell her,
“You are too good of a lover
And I am too poor of a man
To give you my soul.”
She told me, with her wintery voice,
“I want to stay with you!
I need your voice, your hair,
Your hands, your eyes!”
She needed my summer
But I would be leaving for a faraway place.
I needed her winter,
But her cool smile has frozen into bitterness
And will grant me no respite.
Now, without her dark, soothing hair against my chest,
I find myself
Aimed for Balance.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 12:54 PM UTC
Some blades sting
as they slice through skin;
laced with backhanded
compliments, a withering glance,
and the steady hand of
an executioner, they aim
to demolish, stick by stick
of explosive hatred.
Some blades have poisoned tips,
dipped in a brew so wicked
that it lurks from vein to vein
and blacks you out, strikes you
from existence by hijacking your senses
and drowning them with intense,
heady emotions like loneliness, and fear,
and fiery anger.
Some blades are disguised as a handshake,
one that grips and cracks your bones into splinters,
shards of what once was dignity
and pride. A grip that convinces you
to admit that you are nothing, that you are
less than, that you are inferior.
And then there is the blade,
tipped like a pen,
upon which I ****** myself. This
blade, unlike the others,
is choice and stupidity and release.
It is a forfeit, a crushing defeat
that the writers succumb to. It is this
blade, ink pouring from our pumping aortas
to our gnarled, stained fingertips
that dance across a page, that charm
our own minds with the drowsy lullabies
and delusions of omnipotence so that
we can spill the deepest, blackest pits
of our shriveled peach hearts
and spit them out into the universe.
A million voices collide and create the void
where we all end, where we all begin, and
forge the path of self-destruction it takes
to fish out a handful of temperate words,
biblical verses, even historic epics
to release ourselves of our woes
and of every singular thought.
Some blades are caused by the average,
the ones who would not ****** a dagger
through their chest, not even
for the truth.
But our blade, the wicked fiend,
sweeps through every bone and ligament
until she reaps what is due;
the words you're reading,
my thoughts scattered out
for you.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Holidays spent on countless charades,
Predicting all of your plays
And gauging all of your games.
You're driving me insane!
I'd much rather fry cheese on the moon-
Than see your face...
Anytime soon.
Oh how pointless life can be
When every reverie
Is infected by your dull surprise.
Condescensing looks descend
Into words written in books,
Like backhanded comments
Striking my face blue.
With you I'll never find paradise.
Now it's time to turn you off,
Beckon you with a drunken scoff
And eject you from my life.
Happiness is but a loved child
Lurking within the minds
Of the abused set free
To let their hearts run wild.
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 4:31 PM UTC
If luck knocks on your louvered door you will have a chance to fight your enemy. You will stand up like a crackerjack prize and pay no mind to the man that broke your backbone.
Into the windowless courtroom you will trek. People lined up on hand carved benches, staring with unaroused expressions, waiting warily for their names to be called.
You feel your breath halfheartedly fill your emaciated lungs with foul and cumbersome air as you survey the miserable scene and avoid locking eyes with the man that was disguised as your one true love.
You wear a band of rubber which you snap on your wrist at the first sign of weakness so you stay focused on the gavel’s exclamation.
He tells your long-lost spouse from another life with another wife that this is not Watergate and “I don’t recall” will not suffice in his civil courtroom.
His honor dishonors his woven white robe when he yells in your direction with agape red mouth and judgmental judicial tone. When the courage strikes your hand-stitched smile will widen with words and you will command an audience of perjurers who will point forceful fingers at their prior partners that used to be ****** lovers and now sit dead pan wantonly waiting to bleat themselves dry.
Slam the gavel while the corn cracks in the microwave bag until all the edges have been popped out and fairness has been forced through the funnel like liquid butter with a diet coke to wash it down.
You walk away, down the dark labyrinth of hallowed halls snapping your gum and tip-tapping your heels as you flee from the referee who does not understand your half eaten heart with the wiggly worm within its wind-up walls. He will pronounce your fate with a backhanded expletive and a muffled “adjourned.”
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC