"liquour" poems
the tug is light,
like string caught on a bracelet.
but this is his home
and these are his scissors,
and he cuts you off.
your plea is but a mild annoyance
and these four walls seem smaller alone.
they ***** you out
and that tug..
that tug is a knot caught in your throat
being washed down with liquour.
he doesn't tell you this
—not in words his lover can hear—
but he hates you.
you are small
and he hates you,
and that lover is a friend
who doesn't know to save you.
you are small and alone
and he hates you.
you'll remember to believe him
when he jokingly says so.
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 3:10 PM UTC
Who are you?
I am not a vessel;
woman, poet, coloured,
they are only covers.
Who are you?
I am not any of those titles.
You force me to knit a name
from parts of worn clothes
to avoid your own face
in the mirror.
Who are you?
The love in your veins.
The liquour of life -
like water I mold
into shapes, but
I am without form.
Who are you?
You.
A soul.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 8:30 PM UTC
See it's a strange thing,
"self made men"
It's the rage thing,
"forbes front page t'ing"
A majority that's pacing,
voting for a one percent
that in return enslaves them
My girl used to laugh at my jokes
now I'm broke and she ******* hates 'em
I look for aspects of success and then I stage them
be sure to colour background facebook page 'em
My rent doesn't reflect my wages that's inflation;
that's what I get for living so close to the station
In this pompous student city covered in glitter
and these ditsy Corpus Christi *******
be getting quicker and quicker and quicker
Don't know how they can afford the liquour
pre-drinks before Ballare movin' on to something bigger
If I see another site with student accommodation
on the hoarding, I might as well go sell my ****
Start ******* because I'll never make it in this town
I'm one quarter brown and I don't speak Spanish
born in Cranebridge, forced to watch others live lavish
The tourist loves it but a local feels damaged
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC