"lecturing" poems
I could have gone to the cemetery,
or back to my high school lab,
find him lecturing from a podium,
bony finger raised,
demagogue of the dead.
I could break him down piece by piece,
cram him in a duffle,
a femur jutting the zipper.
Ignore the groan-
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Instead I found myself
in the carnival lot,
The dog was long dead,
the sign kept guard.
Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds.
Cotton candy in memory-
blue tack crunching my teeth.
Lewd.
Skeletons fixed on poles,
spiked up through pelvis and spine.
Use ****
Grip shoulders. twist. lift.
When one slid free,
he collapsed into my arms
all bone-light, lovely,
mine at last.
I just brought him home.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Named him Curly.
Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird!
What’s his name? What’s his name?
His name is Curly,
I said, but I knew
his name was You.
We drink wine by the pool.
He never sips.
Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint.
Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman
wants to play his ribs like a xylophone.
Sometimes he sighs,
he hates Oingo Boingo.
I laugh. Obliging.
So do I.
When the wind kicks up
he smells of sugar and rust.
Sometimes he rattles the glassware.
Sometimes he won’t sit still.
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
High school life makes me quite weary, history can be quite dreary,
More than once the class has given me a cause to snore,
While I sat there, fingers drumming, some modern tune I started humming,
I didn’t see the teacher coming, coming in the classroom door.
Normally, she was quite cheerful, humming from the classroom door,
But today she gave a roar.
All the class sat still and silent, knowing that she could turn violent,
And all fearing lasting indent that she could leave upon their head.
All that time I watched with worry; - wishing I had thought to scurry
Out the door in fit and flurry - flurry from the pending dread -
From the sure and ceaseless source of impending dread -
I hid ‘neath my desk instead.
And the roaring, raving, ranting teacher started in on chanting;
Save me - brave me couldn't handle this kind of class;
Now I sat there, my mind wandering, all my thoughts were set on squandering
All she spoke, my brain was pondering, my attention couldn’t last -
As she spoke my brain was pondering and my attention couldn’t last -
I could never hope to pass.
All around me kids were shaking, but no move toward freedom making,
I began to wonder if they had a clue what was in store;
Maybe they had heard her coming, while I had been busy humming,
Fingers on the desk were drumming, drumming so I wouldn’t snore
Maybe they had had a warning - of whatever was in store; -
I hoped that she wouldn’t roar.
Sitting there in constant terror, worried I would make some error,
And thus bring about her wrath upon my mortal head;
But she made no move to strike me, showed no sign she planned to spite me
I doubted that she’d think to bite me, maybe growl at me instead?
This thought made me shiver slightly, i’d rather her roar instead -
At least I could keep my head.
She began to motion towards me, I knew it wasn’t to award me,
Perhaps she had noticed that i wasn’t wide awake?
Either way, She’d given order, so i began my journey toward her
Maybe some day I’d adore her? How many classes would it take?
How much of her pitiless lecturing would it take?
My own life was now at stake.
Now that I had done her bidding, she was at her desk, just sitting,
Watching me with those eyes and her never blinking stare;
Never once her gaze shifted, the corners of her mouth weren’t lifted
It was as if a sense of humor had never been formed there -
As if her face had never shown the signs of laughter there -
I pretended to not care.
All the while, my thoughts racing, I was at her mercy, pacing,
The room of classmates I was facing, but they had begun to snore;
i thought she was a fluke in staffing, until i heard her laughing
Now her sullen, cold, and serious mood I had no reason to deplore -
Those heartless hoards of homework were no reason to deplore -
I was scared of her no more!
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
Okay,
It goes like this you see.
10pm, on a late thursday evening. I was sweating like a ****** in church. I grabbed my armbands and turned on the shower. It was cold as ice to the touch, but begun to warm up eventually. Thank god my wife remembered to turn the geezer on or else I was going to slap a ***** create waves of flesh on that ugly *** face of hers.
Anyway.
After stripping down to my birthday suit, I popped on some shampoo and spreaded that **** in my hair. Creating a burning sensation, tingly, like ants crawling in my head.
Suddenly I was smacked like an unwanted child by the smell of burnt toast in the air,
with the shampoo still sitting in my hair.
I turned around and right before me, something was coming out of the plug hole, like something out of a b-rated horror movie.
Looking like my wife's homemade cooking, **** was alive, and then it lunged at me.
I tell you, if it was not for those Tom Cruise movies lecturing me in the art of total *** kicking, I would be a dead naked man with armbands in a tub, being eaten by the unholy guacamole.
You gotta believe me,
when I tell this story,
This was not all in my head,
You can't just write off what I have said.
I know it must sound insane,
But a mexican's lunch crawled out of the drain,
I beat it's *** like a drum,
like Lars Ulrich at a metallica concert ,
and sent the **** back down the hole it crawled out of.
The devil wanted to bring me down to the deep end,
It is a good thing I bought my arm bands.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
did it work?
I give a useless tug on my skin, done to reassure me
instead it reaffirms to me:
I am, again, inconsolable.
is the mask I wear today sealed on tight? too tight?
does it hurt to pretend so much?
does it seem clear to anyone else that there are loose ends I've yet to tend to? backdoors I've overlooked?
transparencies? can they see through me?
I bare my teeth. canines, canines from the days of carnivores.
am I that carnivore? in my genes I am.
and in practice?
inconsolable, uncontrollable
barely a threat in her form.
this question comes to me under many guises:
an old man asking me: are you that of practice or are you that of genes?
a professor lecturing: are you that of cultivated identity or that of inherited form?
my concerned friends crying:
who are you?
is your mask anything like you?
and then i wake.
it's a terror turned nightly chorus.
recurring nightmares, doctors offer.
i admit i know the content of my dreams to be unfounded:
in life there are no physical masks that do the jobs my terrors depict.
no veil to hide the contours of each flawed personality, no mask to others, just me, weeping-in-the-bathroom, never-myself me
and those attempted favours to be like one another
i'll be like you so you'll like me
i'll like you because i'm like you
so the body charges on in this society like a mirror
cross your left leg when she crosses her right, fold your arms when she's folded hers, raise your hand to say hello, raise your hand to say goodbye
a kiss on the right cheek, a kiss on the left, one more on the left
this is how you show love and a greeting all at once
fold your arms over each other, this is sympathy, this is greeting, do you take comfort in this too?
so you learn to speak with your arms, and you learn to speak with your legs, and you learn to speak with your face, and you learn to speak with your head.
soon your eyes are apprentices of acquaintances, learning to borrow looks like library books, take on others' stories like they've read them end to end.
so in the middle of this process you learn to effectively say:
i see you, i hear you, i perceive you.
and in these attempted favours, at the end of your night terrors, is the parrot that they want to see. the parrot that you argue, can't really be me.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.
Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.
The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.
The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.
What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Hair stands upon jolted skin folds.
You never could eat a salad.
You look pregnant with a fat pig!
Large enough to eclipse the sun!
Large enough to cause nuclear winter for everyone!
Grass ceases to grow with every step that you take!
The earth weighs a percent more whenever you ingest!
Your rolls could warm the Eskimos!
An orchestra of clapping flesh fills the room with every movement you make!
You don't seem to care about the people you run over when rolling in the street.
You say it is their fault for getting in the way.
They all look like Indiana Jones trying to outrun a boulder.
Too many happy meals can make a lot of people unhappy.
Man sized pancakes dot the side walks that we all used to tread.
Skinny people no longer exist, they are all dead. You mistook them for French fries.
You are just as imperfect as me,
So who are you to point a chunky finger.
You think you are so big behind that screen. Lecturing me about body standards when you look like you washed up on the beach this morning.
Stop crushing your high horse and come down just a little bit.
Time for you to get a serving of your own medicine.
Gape those ears wide and give a listen:
I don't live to look good for some fat *** greasy, disgusting pig on the internet, jerking off to ********** **** while his mother makes microwave pizzas upstairs!
So jam that finger up you ***
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 6:51 PM UTC
a liar once told me that i write good poetry
i laughed and continued drinking,
the sudden rush of despair, the wicked beast, the dry pages
the man had no credentials
but he persisted, declaring me an inspiration
like seeing a strand of hair attract a magnet
or amber jewels lolling in a dimly lit case
imagination is a felony, i wagered as i poured another
a combustion i know like the back of my hands
i told him i dreamt of a morgue where everyone i ever loved
sat upright as sunflowers, declaring their love for the sun
and of a newspaper rife with disease and the passion of a janitor
there is a raccoon near a river somewhere cleaning an apple
with a heart as big as an artist in drunken euphoria
taking better care of it than me when i sit down at a typewriter
it's wearing a cape just like edgar allen poe
and having better conversation with an oak tree than i've ever had at a party
about the sunday crossword puzzle he completed
yesterday i drank myself into a masquerade ball
arriving in a limousine being driven by a bearded mickey mantle
i was the guest of honor, sword fighting on table tops
and lecturing the guests about shakespeare through a garbage disposal
while a horse played backgammon with my father's brother
and there was a girl there behind the facade of an owl
who danced like the wind and everlasting light
and no one could stop her or look her in the eye
i am the only connection between my mind and the paper
merely a vessel, a john boat clearly breaching it's depth
either drowning like a fish in a sand dune or
being bounced like a baby on the knee of god
slavery, i call it, and hand him a glass of warm bourbon
as the splashing of my journal pages slap my crushed trachea
the typewriter is padlocked and painted over with cement
the metamorphosis trapped inside a bullet, boiling with sheer fury
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
Mount Kenya University; our school
Has really scaled the heights
Climbed the mountains of education
In and outside the country.
However, we as students have to sweat it out
To climb personal mountains of education.
That’s why am not happy
From Monday to Friday
My precious time and fare
Gets wasted
So that I can attend lectures.
Here I am
A digitalized engineering student
Who has designed a robot
For taking me up there above the clouds
To punish they who brought
All this book-struggling to us.
The robot is climbing up
The steep steps of the atmosphere.
In heaven I am now
Holding a cane.
I dispenses three hot strokes of the cane
On Eve’s buttocks
Then advances towards her husband.
But Michael the Arch-angel
Kicks me back to my seat
At Uniafric house
Where am listening to a lecturer
Who is possibly lecturing for eternity
He does not seem to understand
That my dry throat needs some unlocking
That my lover
Is waiting for me.
Have a look at Nairobi city!
Lit like a bush
Full of countless glow worms.
Look at the beautiful
Gleaming lights of Tribeka club!
At the cheap hotels
Located at Odeon Cinema
Am forced to take lunch
Of chips which cost thirty bob
They say it’s usually prepared
Using some poisonous electricity transformer oil.
My pockets are
really too small
for the likes of Java.
But my fellow mountain climbers
Let’s fold the sleeves of our shirts
To hold onto the mountain’s
tricky walls for guidance
To climb all the way to the top.
And of course
We will have plenty to enjoy
In the snow capped peak of the mountain
Armed with huge jackets
For preventing the destructive advances
Of the then present world.
©2013 Vetelo Ngila
The writer is a Journalism student at Mount Kenya University, Nairobi campus, Kenya.
Contact: [email protected] OR [email protected]
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
You don't know me.
I read books, listen to music, watch movies, meet friends.
I cook, I bake, I drink, sometimes to much.
I learn new things, sometimes not enough.
I work, eat, sleep , repeat.
I draw, I wirte, I exercise.
I try to date to the date.
I have good days and I have bad days.
I struggle everyday, more than you can see.
I do all these things, trying out new ways to be me,
that you know nothing about.
Now you don't get to look down on,
Don't you dare try lecturing me.
For you left when I was a child
and didn't care to visit.
Now you're back in my life
but it's not for my good, is it?
I owe you nothing.
Keep your distance.
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 8:43 AM UTC
It's the
old
Blah Blah Blah
it's gonna
drive you mad
It's the
Blah Blah Blah
every time
you turn your head.
The mouths are moving
but you're not hearin
a word
their saying,
like
a dog listening to Russian
it's all
Blah Blah Blah
Bingo
Blah Blah Blah
My partner's complaining
My children are whining
Your parents eyes are dialating
The teacher is lecturing
the bosses are gesturing
the customer is complaining, irate
the salesman with smiles
is bombing your face.
You're told
you're not good enough
fast enough
right enough
tough enough
too slow
too late
you know what they're saying
but
all you are seeing
is
the old
Blah Blah Blah
I'm looking
into
every one's
eyes
they all seem surprised,
I'm not really sure
what it is
they are all really doin',
all I'm hearing
and probably saying
is
the
Blah Blah Blah
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
Swamy Downey was passing by
The table where SIRI was lecturing about love
To her friends on a meal
Suddenly,
You know why
Love is said to be the positive force?
Asked Swamy Downey
Because people buy iPhones
For the love of Apple
Replied SIRI Haughtily
Thus spake Swamy Downey
Love is composed of light
It lights up the souls
It removes darkness
When darkness disappears
You can see the right path
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
Poems about love,
Walking through an evergreen forest
Leaves of yellow and orange and red
The morning sky bursting through the canopy as we sit in our tent drinking coffee
Excited with what today's hike will bring
When you love nature you always want to be close it
Because I love you , I always want to be close to you
The engagement ring in my pocket gives me inspiration
I want to be as tough as the diamonds that crown its head
I want to be for you, as consistent and unending as the ring itself
So here we are, getting closer to nature, closer to each other.
You, unaware of even how much closer, I want to get to you.
Hues of black and blue with ambient lights of vintage setting.
Nights in Paris and Marseilles near the water, candles lighting our dinner,
The flame giving my eyes the gift of seeing your beautiful face.
Cheese and grapes, chocolate and wine
Yet, the only taste I crave is that of your lips
To smell your perfume and touch your smooth skin.
Your smile , rivaling every star in the night's sky
Your soul, lecturing the moon on how to glow
Your heart, teaching me how to pray.
Because you exist, I know there must be a God out there.
Because you are here with me. I must pray, that God allows me to stay.
Bright lights and tall buildings as far as the eye can see.
We walk along the Hudson hand in hand.
We keep each other warm.
The autumn winds are cold but I hold your hand in mind. your sweet precious fingers grasp mine
You may not notice it, or maybe you do?
You stare into the horizon but here, I pull you close
I kiss you, as if we were in a movie
Nothing in the world do the Angels pay closer attention to than this kiss
Because as I surely live, so would I die for you.
As surely as my heart beats, it skips a beat when I am with you.
Jan 21, 2020
Jan 21, 2020 at 6:42 AM UTC
I grew up between bookends
with the holy word held between
one fell off the shelf with no amends
now the shelf is filled with words unseen
So I read of other options
now I question the thread
of these fairy tale adoptions
which have been so deeply embedded
Christian school, weekly church, prayers before bed
my childhood filled with these epic tales
of a guy who died and then rose from the dead
and if you don't believe, well, see you in hell
They are good stories, some even great
but that's all they really are
to live by them is to live a life castrate
burning bush and a man inside a whale, a little bizarre
I am not mad I grew up this way,
but now I live a life of questioning
of what's beyond the pearly gates
without all of the one sided lecturing
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
I don't know how this came to be
How I forgot myself in your eyes
Something happened after I left that day
That made all of the good things vanish
Or is this my illusion?
You said you cared and I believed
What is wrong with me?!
How could I forget who you really are
So fickle and indecisive
Unable to face up to what you feel
Though what it is I'm not entirely sure
That you even know
I listened to you, even after you were gone
I listened so hard that I changed
I understood things I hadn't before
I grew up
Every day I would hear your voice
Chastising, lecturing
And still you were right
About everything
So I changed, and I learned, and I listened.
Then you couldn't let me go
I was content to smile at you
To talk to you
To be friends once more
But then you kissed me
And all of that easy complacency
Was out the door
It was wild, and it was fun
And I'd never take it back
Because no matter what you say
I know how you feel
Even if you won't admit it
I listened to the words you said
And the ones that you didn't
I listened when you would start to speak
And I listened when there was silence
I have been listening to you
Because you asked me to
But I didn't change for you
I changed for me
To be happier, brighter, bubbly
To find myself again
To do it I had to listen
And you were right, all along
Why can't you see that?
I changed, and I learned, and I listened.
Didn't you hear me?
I LISTENED
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 1:40 PM UTC
I had every reason to pack up all
my stuff
And just leave
Cause every morning I felt like
I was never good enough
It's just me
I never really had it
figured out
But **** no one really knew
what I was about
Just the black sheep that couldn't
fit in with the crowd
Couldn't really deal with the
anger and pain at once
I need to stop thinking of myself
in the back seat with cuffs
Cause I see myself as the one with
the 9mm in his hand
No way out, a clean slate not a sense
of hope or second chance
I feel myself laying in the bottom
of mud
Why me?
When everyone on the streets
is making money selling drugs
No one took the time to catch me
when I fell
Should've known better, I'm already
living in hell
All I ever see is people crying
tears of red
People **** each other everyday
I don't need that thought process
in my head
Jenny was a sweetie but she
let herself go
The whole time she was sticking
needles I didn't even know
What the f***
She had me, she was never
all alone
A single mom, she was pregnant on
the floor
I knew I had the right feeling
but I wasn't at the door
It's hard to see all the people
from my school
All my friends doing nothing
really nothing they can do
No school or work, nothing given
life is so cruel
Can I really blame life?
Is it ignorance or a right?
If I can go back in time I'd
give it everything I had
Give it all I got with the level
that I'm at
Without the second guess and
sacrificing everything I have
Could've been a brighter light
Instead I'm sitting with my dad
whiskey on the rocks
Same thing every night lecturing me
about the life I almost had.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
I am exhausted by the endless pontification from
Professional apologists for every form of
Bad behavior from the protected class of the day.
I am tired of hearing from people for whom
Race / *** / color / creed / disability / ****** orientation
Is a hammer and the whole world is a nail.
I am weary of politicians passing laws
They neither read nor understand
And of the media that gives them cover.
I am fatigued by the endless lecturing from talking heads
About the need to strictly adhere to political correctness
And their attempts to quash speech and rewrite history.
I am haggard from having to deflect the constant, blatant,
Insidious efforts at indoctrination from the self-appointed
Thought police peddling propaganda masquerading as news.
I am burned out from the galloping gall,
Of apologists portraying criminals as victims,
While ignoring the harm done to their actual victims.
I am tuckered out by the double standard,
Of some racists who hide behind a perpetual cry of racism,
As the only acceptable answer to every difficult question.
I am petered out by having to listen,
To the mad ravings of newly arrived Representatives,
Barely out of diapers proposing ideas from The Twilight Zone.
I am drained by the injustice of heroes attacked as monsters,
Monsters treated as heroes and proudly worn on T-shirts,
And those who stand for nothing but take a knee for the National Anthem.
I am sapped by traitors who marry terrorists,
Name their children after other terrorist warlords,
Then demand the right to to come home to the country they betrayed.
I am worn out by life in a world ruled by madness that expects me to
Nod, pump my fist in the air and march in lockstep to an imposed
Drumbeat while ignoring the man behind the curtain orchestrating the show.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
It's just me here
Speaking to the void that appears as a blank page in front of me
Any words I speak to others that contains any meaning only reflects negativity
The glimmers of me I let shine through the holes of my shell are always quickly denied
It seems no one wants to even look at me
It's clear I don't fit anywhere in this world
If actions speak louder than words then the world has preached novels to me
Lecturing me to leave
It's just me here
A cast away holding onto the last thread
Consciousness desparately dangling
I wish something would grab me and tell me it's okay
I'd be content with being pulled towards either direction
I just need to be told I'm meant to be somewhere
That I'm wanted
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 10:20 PM UTC
adrenaline palpitating
hands shaking
mind racing
so mad I can't even speak
when you talk about how my mother was a killjoy
or when that boy says im beautiful
texting because talking about us is too truthful
realign my smile into a numb glare
fixated on who doesn't even ******* care
my anger issues are obviously becoming a problem
with you lecturing me about how I get very aggressive
and that my life has fallen.
well guess what, I grew up and I can't change
i get it from my killjoy mother who likes to tell me I'm strange
and you wonder why I get irritated
but our generations just too overrated
life's just overwhelming
in this day in age us adolescent hot heads
can't even play sports if we have died hair or dreads
so don't sit there and tell me I have issues, when you're the one with the problem.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Feeble-minded brains begin at youth,
Starting across bridges of developmental growth.
Family teaches us the norms and values,
Instructing kids to walk the proper line through discipline.
Educators preach the knowledge from books,
Lecturing the learned skills needed to reach logical paths.
Living is a continuous cycle of discovery that never ends,
Due to an overpass that leads to unlimited information.
Share your wisdom with the younger generation,
So they can evolve into wise people while minimizing mistakes.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
There is that failure of communication,
At least of that soft civilized kind, the
Type that doesn’t involve blackened eyes
And broken teeth and bruises like fallen
Apples. She tries to hide her face behind
Her scarf, pulls up the collar of her coat
To conceal the bruises to her throat, pulls
The sleeves down to cover up discoloured
Arms and long skirts to mask the beaten
Thighs from her neighbours prying eyes.
He is full of jackshit and self-pity and
Mopes and sulks and blames her for the
Messy house, the kids crying, the bills high,
His fists flying. Unconditional love is the
Only real love, her mother said, lecturing
To her on her wedding eve, pushing the
Rosary beads between fingers and thumb.
Nights he doesn’t come home are best, she
Can sleep and unwind and rest. Even the kids
Can feel the peaceful air when he isn’t there.
His apologises are fake notes, they bring her
Nothing, reveal nothing, cast false hopes like
Wasted seeds, open up the pretending dreams
That life is always better than it is or seems.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
People are too concerned
with self, said Father Higgs.
His aged face as if hewn from
Rock, sat before you on broad
shoulders, the lips labouring
with the words. Too much
worried how self will feel,
how self will benefit. He
hunched forward, his large
eyes moving over you like
tired slugs. The symbol of
the cross, he said with a
movement of his head, is to
cut through the I, the sign
of the self. You noticed one
high brow, grey, larger than
the other, hair in nose like
insects in hiding. He breathed
out deeply. Self denial is
the essence of the message
of Christ, he said, a left
inclination of his head, his
teeth (not his own) large
and discoloured. You wanted
to ask questions, but he raised
a hand. The word I is stated
too often in conversations,
he said, or self too much
brought in as myself or herself
or himself or such as may be
used in talk. You understood
this was his way of lecturing.
His black monastic habit was
stained about the neck by food
or dribble or dried up phlegm.
We ought to be concerned with
others, he stated, wheezing, face
reddening, eyes enlarging. Where
is my inhaler? he wheezed, I really
must be off, this smoker’s cough,
my poor old lungs, must get myself
a stronger inhaler and he was off,
out of the common room he had
caught you in some hour back.
All you saw was his hand and inhaler
and departing monastic habit of black.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Long flowing hair full of deep memories , remedies and ferral galleries,
She has beautiful pictures,
Black and purple hair,
Black lipstick,
Black skirt and collared shirt,
Describing an emotional human being is not easy,
An "emo" as they might say,
Darker than the light in hades eyes ,
The stars just don't seem align for me,
Crying in the bathroom just to let your conscience free,
Freedom wasn't in the question,
Neither was her therapy sessions,
And guidance counselors attention,
No I ain't your blessin',
But,
What do you feel when no ones around,
Who in your life has been lecturing and putting you down,
She Wouldn't Tell Me,
To much sorrow brings death,
Let's just hope your not too crazy,
People find you interesting like Kevin Spacey,
The devils taunting with you,
Telling you , "face me",
Vampire skin,
Very cold and pastey,
I just wish you could trust me enough to tell me.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC