"leered" poems
Pull up your shirt,
Put them away.
Though it’s the same shirt some girl wore yesterday,
It’s different cause her frame is dainty and chaste,
It’s just your biology causes disgrace.
Leered at by Men,
Jeered at by girls,
Disdained by Authority , making them hurl
Told to be thankful by those less endowed
While men get their wanksfull from staring in crowds .
Cause showing a shoulder
that means I deserved it,
Cause showing my body means I don’t deserve ****
Pull up your shirt,
Put them away.
There’s nothing to do, nothing to say.
You’ll never look pretty but Hey it’s okay!
You’ll look **** or manly or just plain perverse
I’m tryna explain all my feelings in verse,
So why can’t I just say it?
Stop staring at my *****
thanks.
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 3:07 PM UTC
To the men who have hurt me, both physically and emotionally. To the men who have sexually harassed me. To the men who have tried to coerce and guilt trip me. To the men who tried to take advantage of me when I was 15, the lowest point in my life. When I was weak. Destroyed from depression, from bullying, from the transition of middle school to high school, from anxiety, from blind parents and others ignorance. To those of you who knew I was in a ****** up state of mind, who pretended to support me when I was crying, only to run your hand up my thigh and whisper "I can make you forget about it." To the boys who abused me, insulted me, struck me, brought a suicidal teenage girl to the point of destruction. To the guy who didn't quite **** me, but who came close. Who grabbed all over me while I shoved and smacked and told him to stop. Who tried to get inside me without my permission and who tried to guilt trip me, calling me a tease and telling me to lay down and pretend nothing was happening if it really bothered me so much. Who tried to teach me to retreat inside of myself at human contact so I wouldn't resist. To every guy who approached a mentally destroyed teenage girl who was drowning in herself to try to get ****** favors, to try to get me to trade my body for drugs, to try to bring me down even further so I wouldn't say no. Because I did say no. I always said no and fought and nearly vomited every time a guy started groping, started making lewd commentary in what started out to be small talk, every guy that grabbed at me without my permission and leered and tried to grind on me without any context other than you had a hard on and I looked weak enough to force yourself on. I hope someday someone rips you all apart. I hope someone tortures you, tries to blackmail you, coerce you, makes you feel like garbage when you're at your weakest. Because as much as all of you tried, even this fragile, broken teenager rejected you. Fought her hardest to get away from attempted assaults and made it, clawing and screaming away from you. Cried silently as angry, mocking messages came in but didn't dignify them with responses. Ignored angry phone calls from multiple numbers and continued to live, even when you all tried to break me into a *** slave. **** every last one of you up the *** with a flaming ***** I hope you all go through hell. I was going through hell and you all tried to destroy me, to incinerate my spirit in the name of getting someone to touch your ***** I hope you go through worse. I hope somebody castrates you. If there is an almighty deity, I hope they curse you for eternity. I hope you all know that the girl you tried to destroy for your own sadistic pleasure is stronger than ever before.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
A man I am meant to love told me the amount of skin I show represents my right to consent.
Flesh = Yes
Clothes = No
"Deserving" is a word he used.
A grandfather told his grandchild she deserved to be abused based off the length of her skirt, but this is old news; same story.
Only, I've heard it one time too many and now I'm sick of it.
"Devastated" over my hypothetical **** he'd said,
as though his feelings mattered more than my right to my body.
Well, **** him.
I'm tired of prioritising people whose opinions are so archaic they can't see the crime in their words.
And his words hurt.
He defended the 'nature of men', claiming its an inbreed instinct,
tried to explain the appeal of women as though I don't already know.
Jokes on him.
I'm gay.
But I've never been under the illusion it's okay to objectify or intimidate your way into a person's life.
I've never felt entitled to a person I've liked
And there lies the generational divide
Because neither has my brother.
Being "unable to control certain urges" is just another lie they feed you to perpetuate a culture of ****
I'm seventeen, and yet I know the fear a predatory gaze can cause,
I've been leered at to the extent I honestly thought this is it.
This is the moment I've been warned about.
And then I thought "It's my own fault.
It's dark, it's after nine, I went out running in only a sports bra,
of cause I'm going to find trouble"
because I forgot that I'm not an object.
I'd been fed the same message so frequently it was ingrained into my fight or flight response.
Doesn't that speak for itself?
I'd been conditioned to accept the blame before the finger was even pointed.
So when my grandfather looked me in eye and said he thought girls where asking for it by the way they dressed,
I didn't have the energy to suppress my response.
I asked him if I'd been out drinking with friends wearing a sheer dress and matching bralette, and I was ***** would he consider it my fault.
His answer was met with stunned laughter.
Yes, he'd consider me to blame, and indicated his disappointment should weigh on my conscious.
I am shamed I have the same genetics as such a man.
At least I've learned to drown out his words so they can no longer effect me.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
Alice and I were fudged fruiting inside Falstaffian freakish fleur–de–lys:
She inside a quack–aztec–tattooed tank,
Me inside a pendulous magenta harness with polydactyl–perverted plumes bespattered into it.
In the ****** **** of that kaput flophouse
We creosoted our conks all the cockatrices of the gorge–de–pigeon,
Inside crotches, Jacuzzis and homocentric Action Men.
Alice, with the pornographic bend sinisters in the teeth of her poltergeistish fajita crocodile,
Smacked of the plug–ugly poofter of a south–south–west by south sackful sandbank.
I cemented the jaundiced dangler of an ostrich to my prick.
With that and my uncut fiddlestick of knobs
I was the idiosyncratic and wholehogging sadomasochistic slapper!
We banged the bush streaming proboscis in tentacle
Through smorgasbords of hermaphrodites and high muck–a–mucks
While Ravi Shankar’s idioglossias and cockchafers juddered our titbits.
Our Moonies were classically cracked flabelliform by the time we disinterred them.
Alice managed to fornicate incognito white elephant on behalf of myself
And we were passionately on the back of the dingdong, naked as our Moonies.
We kept one’s pecker up wrapped up in the shadowgraph
Athwart ever-strangling girdles of formaldehyde, ozone, fomenter and widow’s weeds,
Athwart polytetrafluoroethylene–pricked precipices and then down to the butts
Where we both came to a sticky end on our jockstraps and leered at the ballet dancers
That we then penetrated rhythmically by elongating tumescent our gang banging tentacles.
Through comfortable French knickers I burped, “Thank you for ****** me everywhere, Alice”.
In the soporific honeypotspunk, aped on the ooze,
I could smell that her **** had made her ******* type soap flakes break the sound barrier,
Splashing out a ***** whale seed skirting her jowls.
“You’re fragrant, flypaper”, she rapped.
The Government gabble that little green men who hammer out the sexagenarians weren’t on board.
Inside spleen of the spliffs, inside spleen of my gangrenous Pollyanna, I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
I will over one’s dead body evacuate.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
The rain and the wind, the wind and the rain --
They are with us like a disease:
They worry the heart, they work the brain,
As they shoulder and clutch at the shrieking pane,
And savage the helpless trees.
What does it profit a man to know
These tattered and tumbling skies
A million stately stars will show,
And the ruining grace of the after-glow
And the rush of the wild sunrise?
Ever the rain -- the rain and the wind!
Come, hunch with me over the fire,
Dream of the dreams that leered and grinned,
Ere the blood of the Year got chilled and thinned,
And the death came on desire!
2.4k
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Loneliness is the name we gain
Abandoned in attics of despaired shame
We might not know who our maker is
Nor even how we're birthed without a single kiss
Sailing shore to shore of no causing way
We fly, we glide, we slip away
Each day is our rite without rights
Pondered those colors from black to white
And out our interluding charades
Oh, how we are judge by senseless mocking jays
Enraptured by our capacities we can engage
Still we leered showing a zealous face
From dust, A man was oddly fabricated
A tapestry of wonders to show its vivacity
He's so different from our Avant name
And has a thought that could seize a luring day
But if he never saw how wide the narrow he'd take
From dust a man shall die ever the same
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
I have grown tired,
After only a short twenty years,
Of being something for your eyes.
Tired of slurred compliments,
Uttered from behind glazed eyes,
And catching eyes flick up
from where they had been stuck-
Wow! This person has *******
Sick of hearing calls and jeers,
shouted from across the street,
from inside of a car,
from the base of an over-sexualised,
and over-sexualising brain.
And so in an attempt to remove myself from such ********
I have been de-sexualising myself.
I wear long, ill-fitting trousers,
Baggy tops, and thick Doc Martens.
I pull up hair up,
Put my glasses on,
I do not bother with make-up.
I glare and I scowl.
Yet still unwanted attention
Has been able to find me.
Still you grab and grasp at me,
As if I were but a toy at your disposal.
I turned to one,
and looking in his eyes,
I clearly said "No.".
A dog, a child, a human,
Would have understood me;
Yet he did not.
I turned again when his hands didn't stop.
**** off, I said No."
"Slap me, baby, I'm sorry!"
He leered, not sorry in the least.
"I'm not going to hit you.
I'm saying no,
and you're going to respect that."
He left for a moment,
Only to return as handsy as before.
I tell you honestly,
I have no idea
What more I'd need to do
To get some people to see me
Not as a real-life *** toy,
But as a *******
human
being.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
how can we know where lovers go
or when they take the notion
to stop the flow and try to slow
the rhythm of the ocean.
we cannot seek to reach this peak
or lift above that sea,
we are too weak to mug the meak
of their sincerity.
we are alone, together and free.
and here's some stream of thought (that just so happens to rhyme, kinda)...
loopy arousal.
lofty appraisals.
disabled and taken for granted.
in the eyes of the dead,
instead of the usual red,
we decided on green
to dress the scene.
the sound man listened.
the light man leered.
the chef was cooked.
i'm hooked.
heaved on to me like voyeurism
and sought like publishers.
distasteful? yes.
useful. yes.
knowledgeable? sometimes.
lurid trysts and poltergeists
expounding.
multiplication escapes me.
pen and paper **** me.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 10:14 PM UTC
In all ado
ten months in misery
It wasn't me
nor was even you
shrills at the back
of my aging doors
I mind my business
As you—
you only mind yours
Red laces tied to leave
forget twas before
Nothing—
nothing was concealed,
we leered in uncertainty
As we're losing—
losing our vast imageries
our bond was never—
just never denote to be
Cease by now
of these tortured schemes
lashing out and say
"wish it was all a dream"
departing to nowhere
as each wing soars
and all of we— all of we
used to be lovers before
and all of we— all of we
used to be lovers before**
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 12:47 AM UTC
When men leered at me and boys glanced down my shirt and when I was invited into a bedroom or down an alleyway I always said no because I had a boyfriend. But now that I don't, what's my excuse for not wanting someone to want me?
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
A doctor who lost his dear wife
Took to probing the secrets of life
His intention was pure
Though success premature
Lead him quickly to trouble and strife
The notion popped into his head
To dig up the recently dead
With his stitching and knife
He created a life
Which promptly absconded and fled
He looked like the worst of mankind
But was blessed with a brilliant mind
He lurked in the wood
For as long as he could
But he yearned for the touch of his kind
To the doctor he went to proclaim
That his plight was of Frankenstein's blame
And he said he'd begin
To **** off his kin
Unless Frankenstein made him a dame
So the doctor stole bodies and stitched
With a frenzy, the man was bewitched
For his son would be saved
Once this woman, de-graved
Was alive and the monster was hitched
But a face at the window appeared
As his second success was neared
The creature was grinning
His eyeballs were spinning
He dribbled and lustfully leered
So the doctor was filled up with guilt
And he tore up the woman he'd built
So the very next day
In a horrible way
His son was all strangled and kill't
The doctor pursued his creation
Across countries with growing frustration
He went for a stroll
In the southern most pole
A long way off from civilization
The going was chilly and slow
But he finally caught up his foe
The creature was greater
He killed his creator
And buggered off into the snow
The End
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
The cat
followed me
in the door
last muggy night.
on a return trip
from a beer run,
Kurt heard a yowl
as screaming as any hurt guitar,
and looked under his volvo
into the far dark.
Two canary eyes
leered.
Then,
slinking,
the canary eyes
moved.
And this cat
rubbed its body,
the length of its shivering spine
along my
small shins.
And that cat
followed me
in.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
Once there was a mad Arabian poet,
he said,
who wrote a Book of Death
and an Unsettling Couplet
and inspired him
in the way that a car-wreck
may inspire a tattooist’s
gruesome designs.
O, the frightening things
that ran through his mind!
So unsettled was he,
so disturbed.
O, the way that they leered
at his table they dined!
So confused were his colleagues,
so perturbed.
God, the things that came creeping
in the early hours of dawn
when the town was asleep
and the moon was forlorn.
How he tossed in his sleep –
Was it sleep? was it real?
There were Things he did see
there were Things he did feel.
Lovecraft, Lovecraft –
my quiet recluse –
why are you so pale?
Pray tell. What phantom-horror
did you see in the night?
Why are you so blue?
Why do you shake? Are you
ill, are you sad, are you
broken in the mind?
But all of the doctors,
the scientists, the friends,
THEY COULD NOT REALISE
the horror, the nightmares,
the Things in the dark.
Escape through your head
through the blood-and-ink stained alleyways
within. Retire to your room
with a pen and an electric light.
Try as you might
not all of your stories with
their horror that some find unspeakable,
others disturbing –
THEY CANNOT EXPRESS
that pure form of fear
your mind feels at the idea
of the mad Arab’s couplet.
*That is not dead which can eternal lie
And with strange aeons, even death may die.*
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
the last time I went to church
I sang the hymns off key
and the rest of the congregation
leered at me
they were unaware
of my throat being sore
and that was why I sang
with a hoarse roar
after the service
the vicar approached me
to say he wasn't too happy
with my singing off key
his insulting comment
was not well received
so I promptly stormed off
feeling most peeved
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
In my school,
is where her aptitude
was viewed
in grades,
and girls in heels,
leered in contempt,
and even attempt
to fake a smile
in her direction.
In my home,
is where her heart isn't,
where her own mother,
never forgets
to mind her own mess
and never asked
her reasons why
and fakes a smile
in her direction.
In my room,
is where a girl,
sits in front her mirror
who left this note
on the floor,
as she took too many pills,
finally peace fulfills,
and fakes a smile
in my direction.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
A lofty rabbit stands afore me
Mocks and jeers, if occasionally.
It came from behind a curtain.
Why now, I am not certain.
To the masses, I flee.
It jumped and socialised with humans there.
Aware I was; always naked and bare.
Confused I heard and spoke.
It shrunk only slightly, yet it leered.
Speak with a distraction, my ***** play the same.
True, my contradiction, sometimes it I blame.
Useful, as always, I speak to a girl.
Eyes of Tsavorite, tongue of Mercury; what a thrill.
The girl she responds, yet why does the rabbit smile?
Could the rodent have sent me to her? How vile.
This act creates displeasure.
My mind, here, loved her at my leisure.
A sip, a sip, from a forbidden phial.
This was a day beyond my conscious.
Betrayed and now, slightly anxious.
You see, I knew to love you, would
Not be intelligent. Refrain, I should.
Yet, here I write merely to be bloodless.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 2:40 PM UTC
He met her under the willow trees
That grew by the valley creek,
He hadn’t been able to visit her
For the best part of a week,
She patted her horse’s neck, and sighed,
And waited for him to say,
The one thing that she feared the most,
That he might be going away.
But in his eyes there was only love
As he reached, and kissed her hand,
‘We mustn’t be seen down here by him,
I need you to understand,
He rides abroad since he found us out,
And says he’s looking for me,
His stablemaster has said, no doubt,
I’ll hang from the nearest tree.’
‘He wouldn’t dare,’ said Jennifer Moss,
‘My father would have him lashed,
He’s always been too quick with his fists
He killed a man in the past.’
‘But never paid the ultimate price,
He thinks he’s above the law,
I’m keeping my flintlock pistol primed,
My powder dry by the door.’
‘He hasn’t said anything yet to me,
So how do you think he knows?’
‘Your stablemaster has seen us kiss
By the barn where the river flows.
Beware, my love, he’s a dangerous man,
Will settle his score with me,
But then, with you, he will seek revenge
Denial may set you free.’
‘You must deny that you care for me,
Deny that our lips have met,
Deny, deny is the only course
That may make the fool forget.’
‘My heart is bursting with love for you,
I couldn’t deny what’s true,’
‘You must, my love, or the scene is set,
I fear what he’ll do to you.’
He rode away to his hilltop farm
And he locked and barred each door,
While she rode off to the Manor House
Where her husband paced the floor.
‘I fear my wife is a Jezebel,
So the stablemaster tells.’
‘I have no interest in men,’ she said,
I’m married to one from Hell!’
He turned on her in a rage at that,
He believed his master spy,
While she continued to hear the words
Of her love, ‘Deny, Deny!’
‘I’ll spare his life if you tell the truth,
If you don’t, the man is dead,’
She weakened then and admitted it,
She once had been in his bed.
He sent his louts to the Hilltop farm
And they dragged him out in dread,
They tied him to the back of his horse
To the Manor House, they led.
The husband leered when he saw him there,
‘Well, your love has you redeemed!
I’ll let you live in your bleak despair…’
His love was hung from a beam!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
There once was a lady
Named Mrs. O'Brady
Who hated the world
It seemed
The wicked 'ol witch
Was sort of a *****
And she spit and she cussed
And she screamed
The children all feared
Whenever she leered
That her gaze
Might turn them to stone
And the dogs even knew
Never to poo
In the small yard
In front of her home
'Til one chilly mourn
When snow did adorn
And the ground
Was a blanket of frost
Mrs. O'Brady
That rotten ol' lady
Slipped and her footing
She lost
She fell to the ground
With a thud of a sound
And knocked
Her ol' hag of a head
Then everyone stopped
And they let their jaws drop
For they knew
Mrs. O'Brady was dead
But when she arose
And brushed off her clothes
The drop of a pin
Could be heard
She said "I'm Mrs. O'Brady
The wicked ol' lady"
And she flipped the whole crowd
the bird
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
Fog-grey paint on wood…
Sentry!
Imprisons willing hostage…
Safe!
It jars - jams handle door to floor
Uterine prison seals hermetic hermit
The fawn as naked innocent born.
Cow mother forages for food…
To earn!
Boy buck lay prone; ears twitch.
Waiting to exhale.
Wolf pants foul -
turn handle -
entry permit?
On eves gone by wolf violates fawn.
Cow mother oblivious in her providing!
Crept in!
Kneeled!
As fawn feigned sleep…
Lupus leered, licked - abused like prey
This night young deer escapes the hunt
Lays quiet, tremulous.
Wets itself!
Chair holds!
Patriarchal coward creeps back to fetid lair
Brief reprieve?
Grow strong - pray another day!
©pofacedpoetry – Billy Reynard-Bowness (2018) – All rights reserved
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
If spirits can walk the earth after life ends,
Or even before, to soar in flights unhindered
By physics, let me dance then!
To reel, arms out, on a vivid green lawn
In a garden before a comfortable house,
Where lush flowers grow and summer reigns,
Touching rows of Constable trees that tower, emerald,
And violet-shadowed even at noon or painted
In twilight, soft before a rising moon.
I would skip over roads and find that field
That lies, protective, above the Connecticut,
Watching as it winds lazily northward.
Then, being sure that all is right,
That the corn is tall and full,
I would speed up to a rounded hill
Above a Victorian barn in Leyden,
Ten acres of rye grass for the cows.
I would stand at the summit and gaze
Far away, down the sleeping valley in its haze,
To the little towns and glittering in
The sun, my alma mater, towers
Of attempted wisdom, of spires and dreams.
Then I might then bathe in a little lake
Where I once romped with friends
After a wedding, **** and laughing
While puzzled farmers watched and leered.
As before I would flee to the river that wound
Down between the hills, splashing through
Pools in shade and sun, basking on smooth stone
Whose marbled veins glow in the canyon light,
Remnants of an ancient era, of pressure and time.
Then on I’d go, bounding from one hilltop to another,
Turning north from the cesium-laced Deerfield,
Passing Vermont’s border to stroll the streets
Of Brattleboro, Putney and Newfane.
I might find a canoe and glide up the West River,
Somehow floating above the rapids and dam,
To rest on the flat water as the sun sets,
Skimming lightly, watching the trout rise
To sip dancing insects or hear the splash
Of a bass as it flicks the surface with its tail.
And then I would sit with the ones I love,
Silently, breathing in the mist that rises
As the sun slips below the hills;
Sunset-colored, elliptical echoes
Catch the low swells like waving glass.
I would wait here until morning returns,
Not ready to leave this beauty or the world.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
I was staring at the horizon on
A clear and balmy day,
The sky was blue and the sea a type
Of aquamarine in the bay,
There wasn’t a sign of storm or squall
Till the sunset turned dull red,
And then the sky, of a sudden turned
From blue to the grey of lead.
And you were stood there, Geraldine
With your collar turned up high,
You shivered once, then looked around
Took note of the darkening sky,
‘Is that a barque or a barquentine
I see tied up to the pier?’
And slowly, filtering into my view
Was a ship that wasn’t there.
It hadn’t been there all afternoon
It hadn’t sailed into the bay,
I’m sure that I would have noticed if
It was fifteen miles away,
But there it sat with its stays and sails
Reefed in and sitting becalmed,
But dark and ever so threatening
I was right to feel alarmed.
Then Geraldine ran along the pier,
I was trying to call her back,
When lightning lit the sky above
With a sudden tumultuous crack,
She turned just once and she called to me:
‘Don’t follow, it’s my fate!
The ship’s the Admiral Benbow,
I’m a hundred years too late.’
She ran, and her coat flew out behind
Like an ancient type of cape,
And on the deck of the barquentine
Were men, with mouths agape,
A single plank lay across the pier
And up to the wooden bow,
Which Geraldine clambered up to board
While I stood, and wondered how?
No sooner was she aboard, than then
The men gave up a cheer,
And she I saw in the arms of one,
A brigand privateer,
She waved just once, then she went below
To my ever present pain,
The love of my life, my Geraldine,
I never saw again.
The wind blew up and the rain came down
And the barque then raised its sails,
Was cast adrift in a heaving sea
In that coastal port of Wales,
And then I swear, the Captain came
To the bow, and then he leered,
And by the time that I turned around
That barque had disappeared.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
The sludge was thick, the rain was heavy
His laughter, maniacal, rasp with levy
Smug, the broad tree's rustle and whir
Demon's of the night wrestle and purr
He sweat's
Cry's
Fight's
With pain
Scream's frantically into the night, at the back of his wain.
This man was sickly stuck
He slumped to the floor at the back of his coach,
As death leered down, to the quivering roach.
Best this man, be the one that quickened his route, and never gave up In his head's pursuit, but Instead lay In the mud while the world pulls him In.
Devoured by the,
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
Can't believe I missed it,
you think it hurts, what about me.
I'm writing this, but haven't figured out for whose benefit.
Not talking hurts immensely.
that goes both ways, I always will think about you lovingly.
Thankfully, both of us are more than half crazed.
Life is running around in a maze,
stop trying to count the delays.
All the words I speak of you are praise,
also you can be proud of the son you raised.
I try to be like you,
seems an impossible thing to do,
probably cause my skull is as think as roux.
One thing both of us like to do is poo.
You may never fully understand.
I love you, happy birthday Dad.
In ten years,
will you tell me all my wrong turns.
Crack open a couple of beers,
and tell me all the things I should have learned.
Tell me the times you cheered,
and the times you sat back are leered.
its okay, whatever you say can burn,
HOME, of how I yearn.
That of so strange of place.
With so many memories,
some with high anxiety,
and others as delightful as lace,
where life ran at a nicer pace.
It didn't feel like I was in a chase.
not sure if I'm chasing something or the one doing the running away.
You may never fully understand,
but I love you, happy birthday dad
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC
Perched on the lip of wood
staring down at me
is a thing that wanted nothing more
than to become a tree
but it's appetite disliked sunshine
and it's taste refused water
blood and meat was all it wanted
it would enjoy no other
and I've been feeding it
since the 5th of last July
sirloins, roundsteaks, strips and hams
bacon and sweatbreads and leg-o-lamb.
And its gotten quite big now
where it sits by the door
cleaning up after it
is unto itself, a mighty chore.
And today when I came home
it leered at me...I swear it did
a leer with a leafy head...
and now I'm hiding in my closet
trembling in my house
as frightened, more possibly
than a cat-toyed mouse...
because I hear it grumbling
I swear to God it's mumbling
my Venus Fly Traps rumbling
just beyond the door...
I hear it dragging its potted roots
I hear it whisper
"More."
Mar 18, 2010
Mar 18, 2010 at 11:13 AM UTC