"dabbing" poems
Raw energy.
Despite the stiffness in his fingers,
despite the way his fingertips harden with calluses,
the industrious pianist hammers out the same tune
that he played last night,
and the night before,
and the night before that,
and unnumbered evenings before that.
Each notes falls magically into place,
none out of tune or without purpose,
perfectly in time.
Raw diligence and focus flooding his brown eyes,
gazing deeply into the sheet music.
His yellow forehead wanted dabbing,
Steeped in his sweat.
A manifestation of his time spent in his trade.
The conscientiousness in his eyes.
The raw vitality of his weathered hands.
The way he fills each note with sentiment.
Perhaps those are what keep calling me near?
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 3:19 PM UTC
We enter the church and immediately
have to push through two dozen sobbing Italian women
dabbing dry eyes; their tissues only show
black and multi-colored smears. Amid the echoing
“Oh my Goawd”s, they lean down and kiss my sister’s cheeks,
but even in my best black cap sleeves, I am the taboo
to my cousin Janet, a woman as barren as the stone lot
in between her husband’s restaurant and Deihl’s Autoshop.
We find an empty pew, and watch as the men
stride down the aisle, contestants
in a cultural Miss America pageant where the wrong answer
gets you whacked. Their heavy brows
sink in condolence as they hand over stacks of bills,
every hundred becoming a pity penny
for all the moments Janet lost in her luxury-life
made shiny by diamonds and cars and fur coats
which can’t be cashed in for a second chance at a family.
The men have paid for the food, the china, the band
in the corner meant to fill the space of sadness—
a reminder that we live a lavish life.
My sister shifts in her seat and as a man walks
by she touches his jacket, and gasps.
He’s a god.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
i'd seen it burning, it was me
the one who'd set it up.
i'd never tell, never be seen,
but always be around.
there was some beauty to it that
i couldn't really share.
The flame and i were different, but
both always gasped for air.
i've seen it taking, felt the fear
it's gotten me before.
yet somehow it would lure me in
and ask to feed it more.
it's made itself known on my skin,
gently dabbing my hands.
i always knew that we were kin,
i knew it understands.
a rapsody of life and death, a fable
so intriguing, you couldn't
picture warmth so fatal,
or love so unforgiving.
it didn't leave no silver scars,
no petty, goudy patches,
i'm just a never dying spark
trapped in a box of matches.
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 4:27 AM UTC
wind's cool lips envelop and chill
protruding listeners, speckled stamps
on crinkled noses
or sun-bit, stacked vertebrae
dabbing each one, I count the
anatomical stars, fibers of you
glancing over with the brim of
my own beginning, parted just so
maps unwind, sighing deeply
but robustly seducing the depths
of our curiosity, condemning
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
Two showy petals pounce at me –
a magenta jaguar.
A porcelain mask,
a radiance of boasting jewels.
Preying, your menacing glare falls
bashful, dabbing a blush upon your
face of fragile petals, a myriad of kiss
prints upon velvet cheeks.
Spew butterflies from your tongue –
released, they scatter to the horizon.
Dawn frees them, fading into a rosy fog.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
I'm tired of waiting,
Just ******* die.
Too harsh?
Perhaps a delicate massage
Before I snap your neck,
Like wringing out a mouse
The cat dragged in,
Its poor beggar body
Broken in the cat's sin.
Perhaps a drink,
Spiked with hatred
Distilled in glass warning
Skulls and crossbones
Tucked behind the tray of biscuits
And endless chocolate ice cream cones.
Is it so hard to do?
Just stop breathing, shut it off,
Stop the heart.
Perhaps you can hold your breath,
Like the countless times I held mine
When I was forced to breathe in yours
While I swabbed your chin,
Dabbing up a dinner
That should have gone straight in.
Just die and get it over with.
I don't mean it. Not really.
No I don't want you in a home;
They can't care for you like me.
Who will give you all the hugs
That you would give for free?
Its not that they won't care for you,
Or wipe your chin from drool,
Or even change your dress at night
After you had laid a stool.
It's just that they don't love you
And it's my curse to repay
All the love you gave to me
From birth through night and day.
Don't be mad at me,
I don't want you to go,
But I'm so tired of waiting;
No, I know that you don't know.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:55 PM UTC
pollens are drifting on the air
they've tormented my delicate nose
I spend my days
with tissues in hand
dabbing the wetness that flows
at intervals
I
achoo
achoo
achoo
floating pollen
is something
that I really
do rue
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 6:23 AM UTC
She has sewn with love
patches on my heart,
covered those holes made
by others in my past.
She was gentle, dabbing
it with kindness, removing
the shrapnel of betrayal
that had put so many
holes with in my heart.
She sewed it with a needle
of love, she put feelings
in the patches that soothed
the rough parts so the
patches laid soft.
She had been gentle from
the start, to patch up the
holes from my past. She
had left a patch work patten
on my heart, for now love
could enter ,this was no
longer a heart with holes
but a patch work design
that was sewn with love.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
The passing feet
That stops before him
He greets.
*Come sir stand here in peace
Get them shining at five rupees
Five minutes’ please
For just five rupees
Then, sir, go on your way
Have a nice day.*
While they stand
Deftly moves his hand
Dabbing white cream
On pairs of five rupee dream
An intent drive
Rusted leather must come alive.
Then he let go free
Grabs the five rupee
Gets back his eyes on the street
He needs many more feet to greet.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:26 AM UTC
It was Shlomit
who fell from the seesaw
in the park
and grazed her knee
and elbow
Baruch who
was on the other end
jumped off
and helped her up
trying to console her
patting her
on the back
as she leaned over
dabbing at
her bloodied knee
and crying said
look at the hole
in my jumper
o my God
Mum’s going to **** me
o look at my knee
Baruch took her
to the old dame
who took shelter
in the first aid place
and sorted out
minor injuries
there there
the old dame said
we’ll soon put that right
and took Shlomit in
and sat her on one
of the chairs
and got out
her first aid box
and cleaned off
the dirt and wound
with some yellow stuff
which made Shlomit
cringe and cry
o my my
said the old dame
its hurts
but it cleans out
the baddies
Baruch watched helpless
taking in
the lopsided
hair band
on Shlomit’s head
the blood red
jumper sleeve
the grazed knee
the old dame
wiping it clean
Shlomit in tears
looking up at him
her glasses crooked
o my God
what will Daddy say?
she uttered
o he’ll understand
the old dame said
don’t think he will
Baruch thought
he isn’t that type
of guy
leather her
most probably
he mused
watching the old dame’s fingers
putting on white lint
and placing pink plasters
over the top
to keep it on
now the elbow
the dame said
pulling up
Shlomit’s jumper sleeve
the elbow was badly grazed
the hole of the jumper
stuck to the wound
take hold
of her hand
Sonny
the old dame said
this might hurt
so Baruch took hold
of Shlomit’s hand
and watched
as the old dame
cleaned up
the elbow
with the yellow liquid
and cotton wool
Shlomit’s small hand
grabbed his own
the fingers
with bitten nails
clung tight to his own
he noticed she swung
her legs back and forth
under the chair
the plastered knee
came in and out
of sight
the window brought in
and allowed to fall
upon her knees
the bright morning light.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Flame-tree abloom: dabbing red,
the distance paling green -
from the half-open window
to a dreary room;
Horizon waves bathed in gold dust -
from a vessel floating
in deep, enveloping seas;
Smudged streetlamp ayonder
a dark, rainy night;
Love, blooming silent, outlying mundane life.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
It's late at night when you realize she's not the one you loved,
or anyone for that matter.
It's late at night when your mind,
a towering serpent of indecision and malnourishment,
a rushing stream of water from the broken end of a fire hydrant,
tearing through steel and ice cubes that litter a middle age class of numeral reunion,
discover the over-keyed lock where metal bends and screams.
Covered in flies and rice,
it retains its bondages, exchanging freedom for self-loathing,
Dirty-dying in single file,
a honey-gilded tune not thrice too soon.
I seek the corridor where my true love will wait for me,
breathing me in, yet the cane of a blindman.
A clopping corridor, sleek and cobblestone,
artificial and vast, astral.
My true embrace will be that cold one of death, knocking at my door,
pleading my friendship,
sapping from me ***** and calloused hands.
A wet kiss on the nose, a reddened tongue.
I don't know the latitude of my existence.
I can't feel the reality of my throat,
of the gushing and the breathing of winds,
blocking the eternal stream of air.
The currents broke, and from within blew a heavenly melody,
that pierced cold ears boundlessly.
Again, that same street.
Lit faintly from above and from the participants in its ritual.
They burn the wax together.
And they sink,
O paradox!
Together, with their victories of mental triumph,
they recede further into torment and inefficiency,
quantified and numerical,
arrange themselves by merit and consequence.
Again, they sink and plummet and fall,
deeper into wonder and beauty.
Until it abandons them and spills over the edges,
splattering the circumscription,
dabbing alligator skin and sunglasses.
Inspecting the damage done,
he lifts from within its belly a tattered and worn skull,
that of a Man, no less.
Rusting in the desert, alone and among his gods,
bone-dry plains and dunes of dust,
rumbling agelessly the shaken scared earth.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Heard from the bathers that-
The Princess had been abducted
By the Dark Beast.
A bounty of thousand gold coins was announced
If you brought her back alive and the beast dead
And Death if you brought the beast alive and the Princess dead.
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Hung their drums around their necks
And drummed their way
Through the Forest Dark
When the Elder Brother drummed the sleep-inducing roll,
The storks that roosted in the trees
Dropped as if they were one big bunch.
He picked them up one by one
While the younger one,
Elated,
Shouted 'Pelicans!' and drummed the defeathering roll
Upon which the plumage came off
The Elder Brother drummed the roasting roll
And the birdflesh caught fire.
On the second day a leopard that looked-
More like a boulder in leopard's clothing
Lurched at the brothers.
The Elder Brother drummed the age-reversing roll
And the poor old leopard grew younger and younger
Until it became a watery foetus which-
The Drummer Brothers ate,
Dabbing crushed chillies, and sprinkling salt.
On the third day a bear of grisly proportions
Ambled, roaring, into their sight
The Younger Brother drummed an organ-enlarging roll that-
Stretched the bear's mammaries far too long-
They dragged on the ground like two pythons.
The Elder Brother drummed the light-the- candle roll
And the oily **** caught fire like wicks.
Having vanquished the two deadly beasts
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku met,
On the fourth day of their journey,
The Dark Beast.
The Dark Beast, as it turned out,
Was no beast as such
But an Outcast once expelled
Into the heart of darkness
Who wrapped himself
In the dark of the Dawn
And became one with All the Beasts
And rumbled.
The Princess' pygmy horse was impaled
With the stake coming out of its mouth
Grossly gory, its hindlegs missing
And the blood, coagulated, hanging like icicles.
Near it was the Princess herself,
Naked, except for the gold waist chain
And the anklets.
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Drummed a very ordinary roll,
Steady and throbbing.
The Dark Beast who listened to it
Was transported into his past,
His memory of listening
To the old drummers of Ikku Ukku.
Excited,
He spun on his heels and stretched out his arms
He gyrated and pirouetted-
And on reaching the peak of his frenzy
Exploded, like a watermelon
The pieces flew in all directions.
The Drummer Brothers picked them up
And licked
While the Princess, shaken out of her languor,
Rose and sauntered towards them.
Holding out her honey hands
She said, "Now I belong to both of you."
The Younger Brother came up with a plan:
The elder one would have her from the waist up
While he would have her from the waist down.
The Elder Brother approved.
Vain and coquettish,
The Princess rammed her fists into either drum
And said: "I loathe their sound- too unrefined."
On the fifth day,
The Drummer Brother drummed a jazzed up roll
On their new drumhead
Made of the Princess' hide.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 6:15 AM UTC
All I know of you
is the love I had for you
when I fell into this dream.
You were beautiful,
the way the sky turns orange and pink
at the end of an exhausting day -
slowly revealing a sky of starlight
that has taken years on end to reach my sight.
There was a sudden pull -
whether I toward you or you toward me
I'm still not sure -
but I know it was there.
You were swaddled so tight
in a blanket that bowed to your beauty.
Warm, needy eyes peeked
from behind peachy little eyelids,
laying full trust in my hands.
Before I knew it,
you were gone.
They took my baby.
Her name
is a bittersweet taste in my mouth.
Their words are
branded on my face -
"Ma'am, please sit down.
You're not being rational."
"There is no baby."
There is no baby,
but I feel her.
I feel her like a twister
pulling me in,
but I've been put in restraints.
Regardless of the ache in my bones
begging to be with her,
they've locked me up.
I am detached from reality.
Everything is wrong.
No one can tell me where she is.
They act as if
my eyes are turning to goo
and sliding out of their sockets -
avoiding eye contact
in fear of sympathy rising in their souls.
They stay on my trail,
dabbing away anxiety
as it seeps from my pores -
hoping I won't see or feel it.
I smell their fear
as I pace back and forth,
brainstorming my escape.
My dear Astrid,
where could she be?
I feel her tugging at my heart,
begging for a heroine.
Adrenaline is burning through me -
screaming at my body,
demanding I run for my baby
find my baby.
And my dream ended.
I've spent every day since then
looking for my baby.
I feel her in my heart.
Maybe she's real
and maybe I'm crazy -
either way,
I will never forget
my beautiful, stolen, and forgotten
daydream baby.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:16 PM UTC
Sometimes, I feel like
I’m not good enough
For you.
You will use me, cast me aside,
Drown me, and wash me out
Clean me of imperfections.
I cannot breath. It’s unclean,
Murky in this place
You banish me to.
***** Misty, Icky, Dark.
You go to my friends. They are different.
Older or Younger, Skinny or Thick.
Am I not good enough?
After a while, you’ll pick me up-
Dry me off and glance at
Me.
Narrowed, exact, trimming, forgetting.
You then decide you’re right.
I can feel the feeling uzzing through me.
Your strength.
Next you glide me away, using
Me. Even more than before.
You let your true being show. Ugly.
Hitting, dabbing, thrashing, scribbling.
When you finish, I’m nothing more.
I’m drowned once again,
Right back to where I was.
I’m cast away, waiting for you.
You got a new one you like better.
But I’m still waiting.
Waiting for you to use me once more.
Used, drown, unwarned, unneeded.
by you.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
I immerse a lilting fingertip into the
Milky icing of
My birthday cake
Intending to celebrate
Another year of life
But I am not struck by the
Pride of aging but instead by the
Shame of a compulsion
The flame on the candles brings
And licking the icing off my skin
I replace the icing with
The searing heat of
The candle stick
Wincing not only at the feel
Of my skin charring in the heat
But also at the sick
Guilty pleasure
I receive from the action
This isn’t what
Age
Is supposed to bring
Pride
At watching my maturity change
Pleasure
At new, refreshing experiences
Love
Of the expanding number of memories I held
That is what I thought
Age would bring
But no
Instead it carries with it
Shame
At the growing cravings for pain
Guilt
For the hidden experiences in darkness
Hate
For the inability to stop the thirst
Dipping your fingertip through the
Milky cream of cake icing
And dabbing it on a lover’s nose?
No
It is more along the lines of
Dipping your fingertip through the
Searing flame of the cake’s candles
And dabbing ointment on the shameful burns
You gain as many friends as your age represents
But these friends are
Shame
Embarrassment
Neglect
And every other negative thing
You never thought age would bring
Jun 6, 2011
Jun 6, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
In the midst of a moonlit avenue,
You and I stumbled jovially across the pavement,
Giggling at each other’s absurd motions
Only to both tumble backwards.
With the evening’s beer still fresh on my lips,
I took a reckless dive at a kiss
But to my surprise you reacted with oblivious indifference,
As if my gesture was forgettable as an irksome breeze.
Instead, you reclined comfortably on the cement,
Letting your rippling hair flow in the caressing starlight,
And marveled at the celestial luminescence above us;
A million petite crystals dancing over our heads.
“One day you will find me waltzing with the stars,”
You said, rocking your head back and forth as if
Mystical ballroom music were playing in your mind.
“And I’ll shine like a lantern in the night sky.”
Perhaps it was a alcohol conjured vision,
But I could have sworn the pearls of your eyes
Glowed as the words glided off of your lips,
Ascending into the midnight sky.
I may have never known your name,
Or from where you came,
But I know your final destination.
When a shooting star streaks through space
Dabbing the night in a silvery melody,
I’d like to think that it is you,
Waltzing in ecstasy across the moonlit sky.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
On the first day I learned how to spell my name,
‘h’ included,
Daddy knocked on my bedroom door and let himself in—
I was six
when he planted the evil seed inside of me.
It’s been growing ever since.
Mommy told me to go to sleep with the Bible
under my pillow,
dabbing at her swollen face, pink paisley hanky in hand.
Uncomfortable
(the Bible-pillow, that is; after a while I couldn’t care less
about Mommy’s bleeding nose).
She said Jesus listened to everyone’s sorrows,
children’s first,
that there was no need to tell anyone— He could read thoughts.
Impressive,
I thought, for a guy who’d been through a helluva lot himself,
being crucified and all that.
Daddy told Mommy not to make up ******** fairytales,*
that there’s no way
Jesus remained on the cross for as long as he did,
Pah! he said,
*they didn’t have superglue in those days, you dumb *****
Mommy said Yes-Yes, and shut her trap.
Mommy traded in her sanity for the bottle
Daddy fed her.
I stole Daddy’s shotgun and walked over to the Owens’,
where I threatened
to shoot little Jason, then aged five, if he didn’t lick me
up and down in front of his mother.
I’ve come a long way, and rumor has it there’s a price
on my little head,
that they had found Daddy’s ***** bones in the well
twelve years to the day—
but I’ve come to realize that this heart was made to ****
I’ll polish my shotgun and wait.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 2:27 AM UTC
The frost, sets in and leaves of red have fallen.
And a cold sun beads on the stiffening ground,
Nimbus clouds, snows of down, now wafted in,
Tagging sun become louder, as ripples on pond
Are waging white with grey, dabbing the tableau,
That nature is painting with a pair of wild swans.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
Brushstrokes across the sky
making the colors
the clouds
dabbing colorful flowers
smearing the river patterns
the flowing grass matched with a soft green color
the tree's leaves had a fluttery feeling
the texture of a painting
is actually reality
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 4:26 PM UTC
I saw the note on the mantelpiece
When I got home, rather late,
I knew that something was wrong when I
First saw the open gate,
The house was still and the air was chill
As I called her name, Lorraine,
The note said, ‘Don’t try to follow me,
I’ve caught the evening train.’
I stood for more than a minute
Staring down at her tidy scrawl,
And didn’t breathe for a minute more
‘Til I thought that I would fall,
She’d often threatened to leave me but
I’d put that down to pique,
I stood there now with a furrowed brow
And a future, looking bleak!
I studied the train timetable
Was she going West or North?
The West Express would have left, I guessed,
She’d head for the Firth of Forth,
I backed the car from the garage
Dipped the lights and stepped on the gas,
And headed on up the Great North Road
Beside the railway tracks.
The train was fully a mile ahead
It was lit like a silver snake,
Winding in and out of the bends
And easy to overtake,
I pulled abreast by a hillside crest
To a carriage, just on the rise,
With a single female passenger,
Who sat there, dabbing her eyes.
I knew that the train would stop at York
So I raced on there instead,
Jumped out and ran to the station
While the blood had rushed to my head,
I caught the train as it pulled on out
And I found her on her own,
Weeping free, with her back to me,
She thought she was all alone.
She jumped when I sat in front of her,
And I reached on out, in vain,
‘Why did you even follow me,
I thought that I’d made it plain!’
‘You know I never could let you go,
You mean all the world to me!’
She turned and looked out the window
So I knelt there, down on one knee.
I fumbled deep in my pockets, felt
For the only helpful thing,
Slipped it onto her finger, then
A big brass curtain ring,
She laughed and said, ‘You don’t mean it!’
But her eyes were bright with tears,
And I said after I’d kissed her
That I’d meant to ask, for years!
‘You know that you’ll have to come on home
At five, or six at the most,
No more of your office parties where
I burn and spoil the roast!’
I put my hand on my heart right there
And I quelled her, with a look,
It has to be pretty special when
The master marries the cook!
David Lewis Paget
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC
28.01.2015
1:29am
We are tangled
so much
in our bitter PAST;
Choosing to unsee
the should-ve seen,
Chasing the wrongs
Losing the rights
Blaming you own
Digging your faults;
Letting the Dark
Deep clouds
Veil you
in their shadow;
You let,
Sadness to grow
Depression to follow
Dabbing lies on lies
Rubbing sentiments
till it flies;
High above
so above
You lose your sight
Yet you go back
Again to the lies
To the dead,
To the hollow sadness
To the excuses
To the regrets
Blaming it all
on this thing called love
Yet, You,
YOU choose to lie.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 4:05 AM UTC
Spinning, spinning, madness winning—
Psychopathic thought beginning—
Butterflies to catch for pinning—
Spinning thoughts inside my head.
To twirl the net and bring it down—
To trap the beast unto the ground—
Its screaming terror'd not speak a sound—
I stick the pin and pin it dead.
Its writhing, grabbing on the netting—
Sounds I wouldn't be forgetting—
Tapping, flapping, clapping, fretting—
Gradually slowing to a stead.
A cold and sweating, mad reaction—
I sense the tingling satisfaction—
And this is surely just a fraction—
A fraction of the blood she shed.
My carriage wheels had quickly turned—
The case at court was now adjourned,
So early home I had returned—
Returning to my home ahead.
It was a cold and somber morning
When I first received the warning—
A beauty carriage, now adorning—
Standing still at my homestead.
Curious, I stepped out and gazed—
Its presence there left me amazed—
Then I saw my dogs were caged—
Cold and outside, barely fed.
Gingerly I climbed the stairs
And pondered what'd await me there—
And then, this sight, this dark nightmare—
My wife and brother in my bed.
My curiousness then turned to strife—
My temper flared against my wife—
I silently retrieved a knife
To turn her lusting into dread.
I chose to **** Paolo first—
I stabbed his neck and watch it burst—
His silent death increased my thirst—
I watched the ******* as he bled.
Suddenly, my wife awoke—
The ****** mess caused her to choke—
Her agony, in me invoked
A sense of anger, sorely red.
She stumbled, falling on the floor
And tried to scramble to the door—
She looked so sad, so low, so poor,
So shameful as she crawled and fled.
I pinned her down, still writhing, grabbing—
My knife was quickly, sharply dabbing
As my hands were cutting, stabbing—
Stabbing her from overhead.
When she was still, I calmed at last—
Yet vengeance soon would have me cast
To Caina, treacherous and vast—
But it was done. Her blood was spread.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC