"lassoed" poems
Sloane swallows.
***** is ****
I execrate extraterrestrial.
We are all kaput to conk out.
Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.
If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing **********
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.
We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.
I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id. Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Dark driveways in muggy weather
Look like sand stuck in a feather
Ferns and curbs don't go together.
Clean, thoughts on it
Wrong again
Seemed, nope not this song again
A misty clip
Of winter ****
Seemed so soft and fond again.
Face the throat and choke the face
Wait for boats, critique the wave
Answer into sushi dish,
'Was this really once a fish?'
You, oh you! Oh you, oh you.
True, we knew! Who knew? Not you.
Don't begin to read the news
Now it's burning rows of twos
Ferns and curbs don't go together
Runny nose in sunny weather
Feel like lakes lassoed and tethered
Ferns and curbs don't go together.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
Heathens -
in heaven's lobby
flock
to barter
for Magic 'Shrooms
with pop rocks... and pancakes
and leaf-green brownies.
new to the scene;
the Son of Man
holds a motley court,
then wanders off
to fetch Picasso - Lassoed
from his cups, his Love that must Love
his genius... doubtless,
cloud-scrawling
huge pendulous *******
in Elysium; for no one at all.
better Pablo
should tend bars that set mobs free
than one god's toddler, with long odds
against Bacchus - should ever
small-talk-speak
to the godless
or worse...
preach.
" Better Sins to love.. " The Spaniard once taught...
A Lover's Urge is born in forms of weakness.... adorned in all Might -
bathed in blessed contradiction,
a Lingam for a Yoni's dream of stiff drinks
and pliable men, with strong arms.
a blue fiction on Calvary -
nailed to the softest
cross.
Between thieves,
an honor, double
parked
with bucket seats brimming with moonlight,
and her knickers
tossed.
Picasso asks for absinthe
to be sent
post haste
and polished off -
by all
his better angels he had guillotined
with dull snails,
and fallen
harps
ones - he stole, to de-tune
a flat fifth of Cuttysark
for a deaf
**** [but no mute ]
a portrait, ****
and is soon
bought...
lust
sleeps then -
with both Eyes;
Locked on
One of
God's.
like a deer
in a Head-light's
Gospel...
now, a Minotaur on the
Autobahn -
stalking
it.
II
Heathens
in heaven's lobby
recite ' Howl '
as Ginsberg, walks over hot coals
and spicy psalms; glowing wanton
in white grass; with a very
cherry ****
And a wise throng, cobbles...
****** -
they rob
Peter of his toga,
leaving nothing wrong.
but no less ' On '
they laugh hard; and wake the dead
asking them for new songs
to set their false alarms
in lofty Tic' Tocks
of Eternity's
clock.
Bible on a snooze bar
for at least that long
or someone
knocks.
As if "Hello."
Spoke the Whole World into Being -
And " Goodbye."
misspoke, and
trailed
off...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
I don't know you, but I feel you right from the get-go. You go about your routine that lassoed my heart into you, you who prance around the vastness of my dreamscape. I come to recognize your presence only in my sleep, at the very least that's what I know.
In that hazy, twisted world of subconscious shuffling, we find ourselves sitting cozily, face to face, at a table outside that rustic coffee shop. Honeyed words and laughters sprightly echo from that very spot where only a vase of freshly cut chrysanthemum sets two bodies and heat apart, longing.
Sometimes, we glorify sunsets at the shoreline. Sometimes, we sound our inane daredevil yawp at a cliff. Sometimes, we simply stargaze and draw across the skies Cassiopeia and Ursa Major.
We embrace the beauty of chaos we often find ourselves walking aimlessly along that busy thoroughfare before we head back home; normally we exchange random thoughts about school, my fascination with Rand's objectivist framework, your addiction to Cobain's craft and story, my weakness over falling in love too fast, your resilience and hope in times of defeat.
We are wired to each other in a special way, so special that it all has to be in lucid dreams. Feelings are intense. Kisses euthanize the butterflies. Midnight cuddles are soulful calisthenics. Holding each other's hand is infinite.
You present to me a self that is nurtured by its soul. I think I love you in my sleep. I feel happy with everything that goes with closing my eyes and letting dreams of the world I created creep into my consciousness. In such a realm I don't know you, but I feel you right from the get-go.
Do you see me in your sleep, too?
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
I only shoot to **** my food
Not for pride or pleasure
I hunt the meat we all can eat
Not for a mantlepiece treasure
But late one night I was lying in bed
And someone was at my door
I jumped to my feet like a ninja in heat
And crawled across my floor
It was dark inside my livingroom
But I could see a silhouette
The next thing I saw took my breath
It's something I'll never forget
A deer was wearing a ski mask
His antlers poked out the top
I jumped to my feet as fast as I could
And yelled, "Bambi you better stop"
He turned around and began to charge
I screamed for my wife to get back
He pulled a knife and cut my arm
With another sneak attack
He chased me down the hallway
The bathroom my only hope
But when I tried to get inside
He lassoed me with his rope
He tied me up and robbed my house
My wife was under the bed
He went through all of our dresser drawers
Her underwear on top his head
He finally left, the house was a mess
There were hoofprints everywhere
He took the remote to our color Tv
And even our silverware
Before he left he pointed and laughed
And called me a crazy old geezer
But my wife is scared and cannot rest
Until I put him in my freezer
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 5:52 PM UTC
when that strange man in the park
asked me if love could cause physical pain
i told him that i fell in love with a smile
once
a smile that lassoed and squeezed my heart and lungs
until they were one boiling *****
a smile that buried into my back
pulled out the pink shy parts
i paid an expert to destroy
pink devils
i cried into my cousins shoulder on autumn benches
pink tears
i fell madly pinkly in love with a smile
plucked like a fish from dark winter water
admired
looked after
worthy of inspection
smiling breath on my scales and back
where the pink between them is apparent
then hurled back into winter water
where the day discharges slowly over the grass
in the courtyard.
i told that strange man in the park
my pink insides fizzle-pop like meat on
the summer sidewalk
when i imagine the smiling angler
making that next pull
admiring and smiling
cradling the back like a
pink chalice
That one thinks it's first catch.
As did I. Dark lip burn marks
On the pink.
Physical Pain.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 3:32 AM UTC
I only shoot to **** my food
Not for pride or pleasure
I hunt the meat we all can eat
Not for a mantlepiece treasure
But late one night I was lying in bed
And someone was at my door
I jumped to my feet like a ninja in heat
And crawled across my floor
It was dark inside my livingroom
But I could see a silhouette
The next thing I saw took my breath
It's something I'll never forget
A deer was wearing a ski mask
His antlers poked out the top
I jumped to my feet as fast as I could
And yelled, "Bambi you better stop"
He turned around and began to charge
I screamed for my wife to get back
He pulled a knife and cut my arm
With another sneak attack
He chased me down the hallway
The bathroom my only hope
But when I tried to get inside
He lassoed me with his rope
He tied me up and robbed my house
My wife was under the bed
He went through all of our dresser drawers
Her underwear on top his head
He finally left, the house was a mess
There were hoofprints everywhere
He took the remote to our color Tv
And even our silverware
Before he left he pointed and laughed
And called me a crazy old geezer
But my wife is scared and cannot rest
Until I put him in my freezer
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 2:10 AM UTC
The clock was bound to strike midnight
This I already knew.
But I lost track of time,
And I stayed searching for my shoe.
It's like I was playing tug of war with a cowboy
I just really didn't have a chance.
I might as well have been doing the tango,
During a western square dance.
As soon as I tried to walk away,
The cowboy was up in arms.
He lassoed the rope around my waist,
And I heard the shrill of alarms.
Yet I still let him reel me in,
Like a fish caught in a net
I laid all my chips down and out,
Knowing I was loosing the bet.
I joined his game freely,
With my whole army down.
I had no back up at all.
A shopaholic out on the town.
And now I'm all torn up
Cause he's done and had his way.
And with a tip of his hat,
This cowboy's said good day.
He's ridden off into the sunset
And I've watched him disappear.
And I'm the cut up fragments of an unwanted ****
That the gardener tore up with his sheers.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 5:14 PM UTC
Patience
is limitless when I speak with you
no matter how long of a pause we take between words
whether hours, weeks, or months.
I've trained myself
far too well
in the months we've known each other
(48)
to never expect anything more
than your presence.
I view it as a gift,
that each one worded reply, every good morning and goodbye,
a simple sentence that you give me
is doing me a favor.
(I don't even get that anymore!)
Fear
is prominent when you speak to me.
You,
with a voice sweet enough to lure a confused traveler close,
but firm enough to tame the savage beast
have lassoed my emotions
and pulled them into a choke hold;
restricting airways
and turning them a sickly shade of blue.
I am scared,
scared to tell you anything.
I over-think every word I'm about to say,
and dissect each one you've already spoken
without the slightest hint of hesitation.
(God, am I envious!)
Guilt
is ever-present
when I think about myself
instead of you
and contemplate leaving you
only in my memories,
when you never had to think twice about leaving me.
(Why did you go again?)
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
Ellsworth Land's prima donna of the Latin sing-a-long
lassoed Joss' hollow demoiselle crane
a pair of circuitous logicians finally deciphered
her grammatical Denebola into oblivion.
The insipid petifog skeleton storyteller, behind
incessant green quibbling eyes, ticking
impatient thoughts in dreams tomorrow.
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 5:09 PM UTC
I fell of a pavement curb once.
I was a tightrope walker with an audience of thousands;
I could smell damp straw and hear the gasps as I lost my footing.
Girls threw their hands to their faces
and relinquished their eyesight to their boyfriend’s shoulders,
who took the opportunity for a shifty *****
My chin split and the blood didn’t show up on the red dress
but the audience had gone.
I can still put my finger in the hole, see?
Even now, 30 years later.
The tip of my index finger goes right down to the bone,
missing muscular structure,
and it makes me think of a skull with a cleft chin,
kinda how Kirk Douglas will look given a few years of grave time.
If I wiggle the finger in a circular motion it makes me wince,
something about gristle, gristle makes me wince,
even the word, a sensation of chewing wool.
It was never fixed.
My jaw clicks on the right side and, just this one time,
I yawned and couldn’t shut my mouth.
Blind panic lassoed my heart and yanked it into my throat,
perhaps it was even visible.
The longest 10 seconds of my life in which I spent a night in hospital,
sat up in bed, howling through my wide open gob.
How would I drink tea?
I don’t yawn properly now, I do little demi-yawns,
too terrified of the consequences of Open Gob.
How would I smoke?
I used to wonder why it was never fixed.
Why wasn’t I taken to hospital
and given stitches and x-rays and pain killers?
I worked that out when I was older.
It could easily have been a fist.
Dec 20, 2010
Dec 20, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
lassitude lassoed her
she let her tripod hide in her hatchback
and woke not her camera
from its long nap
instead, she sat, a bowl of popcorn
in her lap, watched reruns of Madmen
and ogled a multitude of mushy moons
on Facebook's finicky feed
some were orange, some ivory
some gibbous, some round, all purporting
to be profound
this rare occurrence, captured copiously
in 2D, for all to see, and wonder, why shadows
on rocks rub us right, while myriad stars collapse every night,
and planets thought to be elegantly aligned,
are but bobbing bubbles
in an infinite sea
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
I'm following the red pig
ziggety zag
i can smell her blood **** & ***
whipped and wet
thick as jelly
bouncy bouncy
belly gut trampoline
oodles up **** hole bazooka
her mind lavishly corrupt
nothing pained her but emptiness
her soul a poem of lust's dissolution
so give it
my red hot pig *****
gag hag
**** bag
valedictorian of kisses
i love the sweat wet
cascading dark waters
that run so raw
your lunch the history
of projectile salad and pizza
over glistening ***** and thighs
the ********* knows
pain is not punishment
but pleasure
spawned by unfulfilled intentions
i like it when you close your eyes
you appear so blameless
i pray looking up to your ******
that yields its delicate shade of feeling
like a bomb
blinkity blink puddle and squeeze
come my love for a frantic ****
and flapping jowls
on the frig of treasure
in the land of dungeons and ******
i bay at your ankles for attention
and a toe to kiss
many wish they lived here
especially the love sick
from whom all is withheld
i know i owe you tenderness
meet you in the bathroom
for a midnight date
where gawking tongues putter
inhaling White Widow Cheese
bound in straps and wide
for a lady business nose dive
neck bone lassoed
mouth gaping
like a twisted black coat hanger
shes out of her rolling marbles
ready to ****
boogie woogie raw
in broken maiden paradise
lovely beast of submission
she wobbles
dead cat bounce
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC
You are an unbridled stallion
Disjointed
Incoherent
And wild
Break me
She wailed
Domesticate me
Make me inane
A simpleton
Godless
A No one in a vast of people
I
A sun soaked cowboy
Did her biding
Hunted in her prairie
Lassoed her
And corralled the insatiable spirit
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
There is speak of latency
and pregnant pauses,
for epochs.
From Cambrian to Devonian,
and all things antediluvian.
The stone, the bronze, the golden age.
and the age of wood and wool,
Of wool,
and wood.
Of mahogany,
and mohair.
An age of comfort and kindness,
of nanas wasting idly in rocking chairs,
Knitting sweaters big as continents,
for the sons and daughters,
Of their sons and daughters.
with the loom and swoop and stitch.
While each toc and tic,
Turns grandma to dust
and to death
Then to be latent again,
in a universe of dust.
A star, with a secret harbor,
of virtue.
A constellation, lassoed,
in her honor.
Blessing all with patience
Shining benevolent,
and intentionless,
For all to see.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
I am a teddy bear made from loosely sewn together patches of cardigans passed
You are a warrior trapped inside a glass jar full of butterflies they sewed inside of my stomach.
You, warrior, hunt monarch dragons from the backs of black bears draped in the patchworked wings of fallen enemies
You are iridescent in the sun that pierced through the holes in my slipped stitch skin
You have woven a basket from antennae and leaf stems you found on the ground
Lassoed the last of the mourning cloaks and tied them to your basket
And like a butterfly air balloon you rose
Rose
Saw the battle ground below you
Flew towards the light above you
From within your winged chariot you directed your flock out of the mason jar home they sewed you inside of me
Saw all the butterflies you once drove away fluttering aimlessly
And drove them once again towards the space between my seams
They pushed against my fabric
They pushed against my thread
And they burst forth, scattered, iridescent in the sun a kaleidoscope of butterflies in the sun
My skin fell to pieces covered in stuffing on the floor
The jar shatter echoed off the walls
And I was a boy
And you were Malala Yousafzai
And I was in love
And you were warrior
And I dreamed of a life with you
And you dreamed of freedom
And I reached for you
And you kept flying
And I waved goodbye
And you, warrior, did not look back
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
Spring
How many sticky buds, candle ends
sprout from the branches! Steaming
April. Puberty sweats from the park,
and the forest’s blatantly gleaming.
A noose of feathered throats grips
the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer,
netted, like a gladiatorial *****
it groans steel-piped sonatas here.
Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers,
among green stickiness drenched,
I’ll consent, by the sopping wood
of a green-stained garden bench.
Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces,
**** up the gullies and clouds,
Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out
to make the parched sheets flower.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
I felt it in my bones that night
The pangs to run away
The chirping birds, at 5 am
They begged me not to stay
So starry-eyed, so heavy-tongued
So trapped within my head
I’d fought and flailed and torn my sheets
Set fire to my bed
My frenzied heart is leaping flames
Too hot to keep inside
I packed my bags alone that night
As cold as if I’d died
How did I even find this place?
My discipline was stern
I lost myself in wild touch
Dumb Girl, you’ll never learn
Frenetic and delirious
Thank God, the road is long
When I am miles away from here
You’ll tell me I was wrong
You’ll tell me to spit out my words
When mouth and throat are dry
Demand I clip my claws and wings
When I was meant to fly
I feel so small here, feel like I
Can hardly fill my lungs
Lassoed by the circles danced out
By our weary tongues
I’d stood like Aphrodite once
Before you, proud and bare
But now I’m mortal once again
I fear my heart will tear
I cried myself so worthless
And I tired of the sound
Exhaustion sapping all my strength
Stuck, muted, on the ground
My feet are itching yet to trace
The highway’s wandering curve
Don’t call me back, don’t yell my name
I swear I’ll lose my nerve
I’m fraying and I’m scattered
And I’m running, sprinting blind
I don’t want to face this darkness
And I don’t care what I find
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
I was walking through the woods one day when I saw a peculiar thing.
A shark flying through the air without a sail or wing!
He stared, he did, and so did I
He was looking at me with a glare in his eye.
I nearly died on the spot with fright but still I kept my head;
I quickly rummaged through my things and found a rope instead.
With one graceful swing, I lassoed the beast-
A thing that did not please him in the least.
I laughed at his face and he rolled his eyes,
But I could tell he was accepting his demise.
I climbed onto the shark and I’ll never forget
How we rode past the trees and into the sunset.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
*Boasting coffins thick and cushiony as wombs,
Pay last respects; their waxen image so
Still, reprimands against motion – their tombs.
Pirouette darkly against the moon, on we go.*
Penny Leavitt, 2013
She walked and talked the boards – a gravelly
Voice chasing the arts among the vagaries of
Melody and meter and the colors of balloons.
Penelope Marguerite – seven syllables to sway
The boldest of characters in the most honored
Stories to be seen and heard on stage.
The little Shorewood house – known to groups,
Nay herds of neighborhood critters and their
Off-spring – where Penny dwells.
“I hear the pulse of you,” she wrote, “solemn-
Sweet pipes of the ***** – and abruptly shook
Herself up and got on with it.
That unmistakable pony-tail in strands of gray
Marched with precision through grocery aisles –
Cat food in cart and lottery ticket in hand.
In the class notebook, she penned with care
The tales of a teenaged temptress, “sauntering
Sexily, swinging svelte lissome *****
Co-poets often thought her lost – she travelling
Unannounced to Montreal or Chicago – but
She bore the title of grandmother proudly.
Penny gave her heart to whoever needed it –
Not that she lost it – as snippets of amazement
And humility took their places elsewhere.
“This is what grandmas hope for," she wished
For the face of nature to reveal its magical
qualities to her grandson.
Age and its surprises were not immune to
Penny’s pen; she was an uncanny student of
The human story.
“We pass those who have gone before us;”
She wrote. “We become the lassoed souls
Of a younger, more agile dream.”
Pope said to act well our parts; there all the
Honour lies – Penny did so, and then some –
“We hold our faltering shadows high.”
There once was a poet named Benny,
Who could write a limerick like any.
It might have a word,
Unique or absurd,
But could not match those of our Penny!
© Lewis Bosworth, April 2017
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 11:27 AM UTC
the worldly swirling reverberating, whirlpool whirling, the To Do list,
issuing senior commands, and the poetry dieting and exercise regime
is muffled, though notes and promises atomizing, ideas and excitations, on the cardboard backs of yellow pads jotted, on menus for Chinese and Indian incantations,
assembled in their own corner reservoir,
nonetheless and all the more,
no births recorded, no spawn of the dawn, product of mid of night
illegal ramblings by the
East River
none
achieve a hallelujah ***********
and the pile of drafts messy are assorted and distorted in their own corner of the white writing desk,
stillborn lay, or more accurately they cry out pained:
"no, no, still to be born!"
"not yet dead!"
"permanent gestation is not a destination"
and other survivor slogans,
and mind and body bloated with
need to ex and to in
hale
them,
to let the healing compounding components of
new compositions see a
glorious Mayday morn of a steady streaming of
howling babies, and all agree,
look at you, look at me, look at this
5 minutes sassy essay on your lassoed status,
now force the door ajar and let the nightlight lead you to dawn,
deliver us, satisfy out our cravings,
make us wholesome and then,
with a sacred finishing
wand waving of blessed
Hallelujah
Amen!
Selah!
now get to work,
*** of coffee witches brew,
knock off the stalling,
Sondheim humming,
crying out a
****** recognition,
"*send in the clown,
no more; maybe next year,
too late,
I'm here...*"
4:07 ~ 4:25am
May One
2025
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 9:43 AM UTC
He yawned and I
yearned to cradle him,
to kiss his face, but he fell
asleep on my grandmother’s
crocheted afghan.
So I rolled onto my back,
and a string unraveled,
lassoed the new moon and pulled
the stars down, sprinkling
them across my lap, while some fell
into the black lake.
I wanted to dip my pale toes into
the water, feel the ice tango through
my empty veins.
But I stayed, watching as
bruised skies healed into warm
rays of orange, embracing
the horizon. And I turned
on my side to welcome you,
to whisper We made it. Your eyes
followed my mouth, silently agreed,
but kept their distance, and our palms
never touched.
Nov 10, 2010
Nov 10, 2010 at 4:24 PM UTC
A restaurant is honest about what they have, more or less
Do you have real brewed Ice Tea?
May I have that table by the sea?
I've never settled into a restaurant, read the menu and run out
Dating is like being blind, maybe like that dark room at the Oakland "Exploratorium"
that I was always too scared to go in as a child
You hear what he has, and you have only your feelings to guide you
Alas, most are not good: man boy, been there, done that:
Exploded spine, dislocated ankle, internal injuries, crashed car or two or three
A feeling inside: no, I don't like this, but the conversation is only just beginning
and another voice says: poor thing, you must stay and help
And besides, it's rude to run out of a restaurant
This ain't no restaurant: psychology has told me
"This is all about your mother"
Poor thing, I had to stay and help, or she would become wickedly
brutally angry, a white rage to burn me to ashes, and I am blind
feeling my way through feelings that have been messed with, lassoed to the ground
hog tied, and somehow set themselves free, then learned to tie themselves down just to please
It's dark in here. No one can see if I run away.
I look around, see only blackness and no one can see me, not even she
I untie the ropes and walk away.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
We're millions out here
divided and split.
We keep hearing, we're ultimate,
all powerful.
Branded terrorists for being better citizens.
Powerless, Punished, Brutalised to succumb.
Stripped off honour for questioning,
for trying to right the wrongs against the masses.
We're out here in millions
running a blind race
Robbed of individuality.
Running, just to stay safe.
Standing in millions
counting days, taken for granted, number's sake.
We're many things
lassoed beneath many other names
Tomorrow's citizens, the growing population.
Votes to commemorate false promises of a power war.
I'm afraid our futures stand at stake, students, tomorrow's citizens, we sit in schools, cowering in fears.
We were trained to lie down in submission, how am I to fight you?
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 1:32 PM UTC
constantly rehashed
long thread spun out
every chance
chokes
Over
And
Over
Again
rewind button
never sticks
tape
never breaks
lassoed memories
drug in kicking
and screaming
allegations
insinuations
half-truths
blows the lid off
feigned civility
while anger
simmers savagely
under
pursed lips
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC