"mouthy" poems
ARTERY CONFESSION.
_Her love to me is like moon light, on a starry night._
As rising sun at dhawn. Like vine planted on his heart's yard. _which he ought to water to flowery_ _And fruitage._
his love for her is as deep as the dept of an ocean, _with the fishes abiding therein,_ _as stars, moon,_ and the sun adhered to the sky, it never
departed away from her side.
_his love to her can simply easily be compared to_ _GOD's towards mankind._
So he confessed and rendered his heart to her. _Like a teeming downpour upon earthen soften, it surface._
so her love compassed his heart comforting, _like pabulum to mind._
As light rays to eye sight. His love for her is reality only can be told in tale of their love story,
_gory to glory._ _He so_
Much love her and
really ready,
_in for her, fell in the water._
Lost and found with her for ever. _He wish he could wash her feet wilt the waters of his soul, cleansing her heart._
because he see her heart compatible to his.
_Remembered old days of midnight calls, they never used to give sleep to their eyes._ While talk through night, dusk till dawn,
_Remembered promises and all the pain they both had gone through heaven and hell._
*Never forgot the only first day he felt the fullness of her ******* _how sooth her heart. Tongue on tongue, mouthy pleasure._
His hands on her curves. Briskly remembered she _told him that after her_
momma he be next to her.
_She call him dad he call her Mami._ Before she demised his mama used to asked about his lady. His homies do too.
_His young blood can't either forget her memories,_
last night he was asked about her, oh sweetness
_is all about thee._ _Can't forget_
her, _he always craves_ her. All he ever wanted and desires are all found in her, his boo. _He truly loves her because he knew she'd make a good mother,_
Hope she'd understand if he change sometimes just only because he never own everythang as his. _So remember he always told her_
that he will always be there for her as time,
_even in the world after here._ _Her love is so good to him_
She has the key to his heart.
_reminisce she told him she'd_
_rather die for him than sleeping at someone else side._
She's his inspiration like a transportation, his motivation only she can help build his cloud nation. _His aspiration_
all is found in her, _all in ONE no one else but she._
She source the past time joy and still the reason _for today's and the hope_
of tomorrow's glee.
Sacrifice his love for her because he believes in future with her, she's his destiny his fate mate his ruth, his batsheba,
_His mary, his eve and soulmate._
#c9_fm
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 4:26 AM UTC
A walk around the block in my parents’ neighborhood at dawn
wearing mom’s sweater and pop's sneakers with a clown hole cut out for
toe infection
I was stopped by a cop in a cruiser
this was during the Vietnam War long hair ago
he was angry at everyone I was offended by everything
he said which way are you going I said which way are you going
so he socked me in the mouth and handcuffed me
I was arraigned on disorderly conduct and resisting arrest
my good parents came down and stood beside me before the judge
I wrote to the police department internal affairs
not for retribution but to start a paper trail
in case this cop someday bopped one of my brothers
a few months later I’m back at work in NYC
two detectives come into the city to question me
one good cop one bad cop we park in the park me in the back seat
they wanna know was I mouthy to the cop who punched me in the mouth
long story short
they leave me on a bench to eat my lunch and the charges are dropped
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 6:50 AM UTC
Listen here ******
Your hole is too tight
There are no fake ***** out here none made in China
I despise virgins, cause ***** don't fit
I don't appreciate blow jobs that's temporary
I prefer full time jobs
So won't you take ******* ***** as a full time job mouthy?
Won't you wind my tambourine till it weeps and sobs?
I don't like ******* that weren't ****** before
They got penises acting like tampons
I don't like being the first ****** this **** stays on girls hearts like tattoos
If we **** you are my client, we build a rapport
Growing up l had a phobia for hairy vaginas
I always told my ****** to shave because I never imagined myself dating a bushman
Nothing is an idiot like my **** I saw it growing feet and standing cause this girl in a taxi was eating banana
Growing up I had a phobia of a pointy ***** in public.
Don't hate, my ***** writing.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 1:27 PM UTC
Night starts
with a drip,
and roaches move your feet.
But when day comes,
it comes.
Fear is
as good as sunshine,
it keeps you lose,
then tight.
The Jamaican bones,
having been ground into
sugar,
are whipped into coffee
and grey goose.
A mouthy mix,
and it seems
to cleanse the whole earth;
cannibals praise the lord
in all of his glory.
And on the way
to the first day
of forever,
the iron in my blood
clings to my gums.
I know you there
on the highway,
as we both drive with our
heads downwards,
our evil hearts
cuddling cowardly innards.
Press your fingers,
dismember what lingers.
Crack those knuckles,
smack those palms
and blow that screaming bone.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
You look at a person
A stranger, a loved one, a partner
And you think;
How can one person be so beautiful?
Inside and out you see an aura of unimaginable beauty
A friendly face
An intoxicating laugh
A smile that makes you smile without even realizing it
And then you look at yourself
You hate the way you smile, all crooked and mouthy
The way your cheeks are too pudgy
Your glasses too big for your face
Your voice too soft to break through the chatter of others
But you
You are a lion whose voice is booming thunder
With claws that can tear through the veil
The one you’ve kept yourself shrouded in for too long
You should be proud
Proud of your wild and unruly mane
Proud of your scars earned from battles with many others
Not to mention the battles you wage on yourself
You could move mountains and uproot trees if you tried
But you don’t
You look at yourself
Your cheeks too pudgy
Glasses too big
Voice kept under lock and key
Vocal chords dusty with disuse
Your heart is so big and so beautiful
You see so much in everyone else
But can’t bear to see anything in yourself
You are a wild flower sprouting through the cracks in the sidewalk
You could move mountains and uproot trees if you tried
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
Have you ever been
pulled over by the culture
police?
I know this culture cop
who loves pulling people
over for self-expression.
He'll wait till you break
into color, and cut you
off at your most emphatic.
He'll **** burp, scoff--
master craft a discombobulating
smack to your mouth.
He thinks most expression pins
you down to obviousness.
So by definition a lack of expression,
or stifled expression, means
you're not being obvious.
Therefore tolerable, but being obvious, or not being obvious is still
being, trying--expressly.
Watchdog of his own passive-agression, his cagey brooding activated by voices in excitation
of uniqueness.
He's living hard between the lines,
unable to read so to speak, as sing!
My mouthy mute carbon copy
of repression, I'm so sorry--truly.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 10:42 AM UTC
Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia
two limp slices
and said
get that inside you
can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think
you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea
but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread
but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother
into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed
her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse
a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked
up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter
had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around
in her head
to see how they fitted in best
can I?
her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible
but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no
her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where
she was
in her request
your gran always said
that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility
said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly
no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked
because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?
her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me
Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said
she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs
in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile
and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?
she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said
adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if
it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone
like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread
in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said
don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed
the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles
Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's
thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?
Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy
like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand
across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed
the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it
lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen
she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm
or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want
no pain
she'd not ask
again.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
I'm employed
But not enjoyed
They're annoyed
Until I'm destroyed
Then they fill that void
With another humanoid
I'm a hollow coil
From lots of toil
Like hot oil
I'm not royal
I just boil
Underneath the soil
I say howdy
Loudly
To the rowdy
That doubt me
And out me
As mouthy
This mistake
Fish tank
I drank
Stank
So rank
My mind went blank
I cannot fight it
My mind on autopilot
The roof I tile it
To style it
Violet
While lit
I am a changeling
That is aging
From waging
A war raging
Against those caging
The rat who's racing
The pain is inner
As a fidget spinner
A ****** sinner
Ate for dinner
For he's the winner
Of the money printer
And my mind of cinder
They broke me
No joking
Just poking
The nope king
While hoping
Society starts sloping
Towards communal coping
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
You are daring and fun
You draw me in
I can't resist
I can play
I give it right back
sacarastic & flirty
You wanna try
I give it right back
Call me mouthy
Whatever
I can see
see what's going on
I got ya baby
Wanna play
Let's play
Dam he's ****
I like this game
© Jennifer L Delong 11/2024
Nov 10, 2024
Nov 10, 2024 at 5:18 AM UTC
Messy Bessy
Pouty fussy
Screaming crying always *****
Ugly Bessy
Huffy Puffy
Yelling punching kicking kitty
Silly Bessy
Loudy mouthy
Mommy madly gives a slappy
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 12:57 PM UTC
Reynard and I
held back
after biology
while the other kids
had gone
and we walked up
the corridor
I could have scored that goal
lunchtime
if Goldfinch
hadn't got
in my way
he's always
where you don't
want him to be
Reynard said
I saw Jeanette
walking ahead of us
with her blonde friend Angela
Jeanette had class
I thought
her friend
was a short
mouthy girl
but Jeanette
was quite reserved
and looked at you
as if you had stepped
in her sunshine
but I liked her
and that quick kiss
I snatched the other day
still felt stuck
on my lips
Angela had short tight
blonde curls
Jeanette had long
dark hair reaching
her shoulders
I gazed
at her thin figure
her arms by her side
the satchel
over her shoulder
Reynard was still talking
about the football lunchtime
I was looking
at Jeanette’s sway
of hips almost unseen
yet visible
to the trained eye
the way her legs
came down
to her well heeled shoes
the white ankle socks
think we ought
to try get Frazer
on our side
he'd be great in goal
better than Dunton
the prat
he couldn't save a goal
if the ball
was as big as he was
Reynard said
yes we must get Frazer
I said
wondering how I’d get
that kiss
that Jeanette promised
the lips tempting
and her cheek
just visible
the place my lips
touched
the other day
and the kiss
just stayed there
and wouldn't
go away.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Antara sheddad a man of letter,
Born to suffer and to write,
For worse or for better,
He thought he was doing right.
Antara found himself in a pickle
Over a mighty promise,
His love went, although fickle,
From a melody, to a hiss.
Antara voiced his mind,
A lustful mouthy dirt,
Mindful he might find
Joy in agony and hurt.
Antara wrote for a nickel,
Not to expect a dime,
Clever and whimsical
With a rhythm and a rhyme.
Antara wrote a little and knew
His audience expected a lot,
He went cold on the few
And on the rest went hot.
Antara wept and laid down tall,
Now out of breath
His dying words call
For life and for death.
Antara lived in rumpus
No home, no rest, no treat
They named after him a campus
A library and a street.
Antara Sheddad lived a helot,
Unfed on Obedience,
A heart of a zealot,
And an ill-fortune expedience.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
Stare carefully. Drop it. Say yes to the coffee. Handle grip. Roll. Ticket scanned. Waved hand and then - stand. Stand more still. Mouthy slime. Thank you but sharp objects? Sneeze. Bless you. Floor. Floor. But more parking. Those seats. Pasta, beef. Gargle and inflate. Wear all red for all the hate. One kit. Quiet down the pumps. Noisiest shoes. And we’re gone. Thirty seven thousand feet kind of gone. Thunder side note: I want more friends. A little flash…and shake. How serious. Get up. Gingeralebreakanail. What happens if we crash. Home, not hometown.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
You walked home
from school
with Sutcliffe
(O’Brien was off
with dysentery
which Eddie thought
was a load of ****
along the New Kent Road
by the shop from which
you bought
a stamp album
and the silver looking
6 shooter gun
and holster
with the belt
with pretend bullets
all around
in little holders
and Eddie said
his big sister
was beginning to spend
too much time
in the washroom
getting herself
all geared up
for her boyfriend
and that his dad
banged on the door
wanting to get in
for his shave
( she’d used all
the hot water
her mother had boiled
in the copper
for the family bath
that night
and his sister
had bellowed back
I’ve got to look my best
I can’t go out
smelling
like a dead rat
and Eddie laughed
(his buck teeth showing)
and Dad told her
she’d feel his hand
across her backside
if she got
too mouthy with him
so she shut her noise
and came out
all dolled up you
her hair all piled high
her lipstick bright red
her tight skirt
and Dad said
if you think you’re going out
dressed like that
you can think again
but she did
and that was it
and Mum said to him
she's only young once
but he just shaved
and moaned
and I could hear him
muttering to himself
and so Eddie went on
(O’Brien would have
baited him about his sister
would have riled him bad
but he was away
and Eddie was glad)
and so you got
to the corner
of Deacon Way
where Sutcliffe lived
and so you walked
across the road
to Meadow Row
and he waved
and you watched
his blonde cropped hair
and black uniform
disappear from sight
and walked towards home
hands in pockets
satchel on your back
scuffed shoes
kicking stones
onto the bombsite
home to tea
of bread and jam
then out with Ingrid
on the balcony
looking down
over the ledge
at the people passing
or kids playing
making a din
until her father
called her
with his rough voice
and she went back in.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
From that moment the mouthy man in the middle,
top hat in hand, barks and waves our three floodlit rings
into motion with a flourish of brassy blasts,
the big top gets turvy and my stomach's all nerves
making the bushel of peanuts I just munched feel
like broken glass chewed by my friend the tattooed geek.
Martha says, Elephants are supposed to be more
dignified... don't mope! It is hard to grasp for her
tail day after daisy-chained day when I'm holding
this bouquet of forget-me-nots rubber-banded
by a grudge. I tell her, The real indignity's
being dressed in a rhinestone-studded satin cape.
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 3:30 PM UTC
I wrote you a poem, about why I'd write a poem for you. You caught me one time trying to tame my mind with lines of rhyme, when I told you it was about a woman we both knew you said, next time... why don't you write about me? I said because you don't inspire me. The easiest excuse for writers block... I need to be inspired. I need to be hotwired into a matrix of men and women who are driven by every feeling they are giving. I need rhythm and words. The pen is a decipherer and the page a treasure map where we will write our way to gold. We sold ourselves on the belief that we could... write smiles onto people...
So we write. Muster our might and write light into the dark times. Stitch beauty into the scars of the harmed, arm ourselves to the teeth against those who act beneath what is considered humane. With ink in our veins we write like we fight. Unafraid of a broken bones because the next blow we throw will be through our throats. We are mouthy poets, and the most powerful weapon in arsenal is our battle cry. And should one of us die on the field we'll uproar, we'll outcry, we'll encore and we'll breathe life into what remains of our fallen and give them the best ******* send off ever.
And when we finally reach home after our time together ... We'll keep writing. We'll write worlds out of words. Write instructions to the sky and orders to the ground will write love notes to sound and have this all down before the next sun swings around, with metaphors abounding and similes astounding we don't clown around with the words we've found.
We write in skin grafts. We talk the hollow into wholesome entice oppressed into the inspired and paint the lonely as lovely. We fill in the gaps. We are the ifs the ands and the buts following the 1 word answers to the big questions. Do you love me? What are you angry about? How do you feel?
And we'd say, yes! If I was terminally ill and have the doctor prescribe me you, because you make me feel more alive than I've ever felt!
We'd say, everything. Sometimes I just feel trapped in my own skin like the society that we live in has made jail cells out of my skin cells!
We'd say... Okay. I feel like his smile told me, he'd catch me if I should fall. We write so we can say it all.
We write in passion and love, we write an apology, we write in admiration, and affection. We write in absolution as much as uncertainty. We write in purpose as much as apathy.
We don't write because we should. We write because we can and It's everything we are and everything I am.
This!.. Is why we write.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
I wish we had a president
That cared about the populace
Instead of one who's wants the law
To bankrupt almost all of us.
The one we have cares about
Only the super rich and the white.
He’s a ditzy mouthy narcissist
And for sure that is not right!
It really wasn’t long ago
We went through this kind of fear
And now we are feeling sick
That terror is once again here.
This time we’re not afraid
Of people from another land.
Our country may be dying
But, again it’s by it’s own hand.
Part of it is stupidity and sloth
And part is just evil mindedness,
That either makes us look away
Or make others hate kindness.
Some of our parents trained us
To be big bullies and whiney brats.
And others ******* progress
By dissolving into brainless spats.
I wish we had a president
Like we have had in times gone by
Instead of one who is so happy
To pat his own back, cheat and lie.
It would give us all a chance
To avoid waging another war.
I wish we had a president
That knew what that job was for.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 4:17 AM UTC
John sits
on the school coach
by the window
next to Goldfinch
watching the trees
and fields
and cottages go past.
Goldfinch is talking
of football:
who do
I put
in goal lunchtime
as Potts is way,
who do you think?
Goldfinch says.
Not me that's,
for sure,
John says,
his mind
isn't on Goldfinch
or the goal,
but on Elaine
sitting over
the other side
of the coach.
He looked at her
when she
and sister
got on the coach,
but she looked away,
and not at him.
He guesses she
was shy after all
the rumpus since
Elaine's mouthy sister
told everyone
on the coach
that he had
kissed Elaine.
But it soon
died down
and apart
from a few
How's the Frump Elaine?
When he got on
and later
when Elaine got on,
then it died out.
Now the kids
are talking amongst
themselves or listening
to the music
from the coach radio,
some pop song
about loving somebody.
Need someone
by lunchtime,
Goldfinch says,
whom do you suggest?
Green might,
he ain't bad,
John says.
Green? He couldn't
save a 1p
for Christmas;
someone else,
Goldfinch says.
John doesn't
care who,
he's thinking
of Elaine
and whether she'll
let him kiss
her again
after the rumpus;
he hopes so,
although he's
not sure
he'll be welcome
at Elaine's home now.
Why did her sister
tell like that?
He muses,
listening
half heartedly
to Goldfinch's talk,
it was just a quick
kiss not
too passionate
and it was only
while her mother
was out of the room
briefly that day.
He looks over
to where Elaine
is sitting quickly
to see if she's
looking his way,
but she isn't
she's staring out
the window.
Her sister
glares at him,
so he looks away,
and back out
of the window
and the passing view,
not sure
what to think
or what to do.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
Working these lonely nights
While everyone asleep
Chained to heavy irons
As I pace slowly upon the deck
Paying an old debt
Whom the crew has butchered
Leaving no witnesses
To persecute
The captain is decease
I, a stable boy
Knew the real truth
For my tongue will never speak
Nor mouthy words make noise
Being a mute
Who eyes can only see
The silence of horror
Coming towards me
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 6:06 AM UTC
My Moonlight archipelago,
my escape
I approach the buttress of boredom better known as your doorstep
I pull you in...
your hair stretches from clenched fingers and what follows down to the feel of my fingertips is religious in nature
under a broken blue street lights, i cradle inward, immersed now in infinite youth of lust... a flash of light... street lamps lit now a Coca Cola Red ... the color plays, a chromatic cinema fills through
your follicles
I spin you away momentarily and envy my shadow now pressing upon you
we are Cathars,
heuristic heretics,
learning love through touch in a hate filled land (the pesky conformity of late-stage Western Civilization)
still
Your ether look absolves me of this world’s sins
beam raw:
render quiet:
Baptize me in the esoteric and verbose stares, the *** is drawn on your lips, so mouthy, but saying nothing inside the long Chaplin silence,
you vacillate
and I’m vacant
my voice removed
spent, empty in the Valentino deadpan stares
Post Script: The gaze gave conversations: conversions still silent in her looks, a living Bible's worth of words in those sacred scripture holy eyes.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:12 PM UTC
I'll take a rain check on saving for a rainy day
Spend all I got on getting wrecked and watch my vision sway
Problems for health it does outweigh
When I'm out I look like a ******** on display
On the bus I'll spew in ya handbag
With one hand down my trousers the other holding a glad rag
Spit some abuse at some mouthy dumb ****
When I'm drunk I'm harder to move than a wet sandbag
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
It’s not an absence
this 2am darkness—
half-dark and half-lit
by its unnatural glows—
grabs hold of,
firmly pulling it—
this thing not
an absence— growling
from the dead
black inside a stray
dog’s too-mouthy head;
not just it, but the voices—
untroubled and present
if not too
many, tucked into
a more deeply darkened night.
It takes them, not to
gobble them
up, but to throw them
off cobble, cement and stone
to open places, voices
won’t normally come.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 6:02 PM UTC
Hmmmmm, always look, before the street you cross
Forget you not, tween your teeth, to use the floss
All the food upon your plate, consume
Bed you make, before you leave your room
To your elders listen, as they are wise, and sage
from the dark you walk, as student, turning page
Mock not your master, giving you advice
me, you pretend to be, that isn't very nice
Say you what? ******* little you
over here you come, lessons, you will do
Lip you give, receive thrashing so you shall
none crap I take, not from you, my forceful mouthy pal
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 7:54 AM UTC
I have always been accustomed to cleaning up everyone else's messes.
At work I literally do it.
With my friends, I'm the peacemaker.
With my family, I always offer to assist financially
Or I'm not given a choice.
So why can't I seem to get my own life in check?
Why is my own slew of pain
Anxiety, worthlessness and loneliness
Just settling like oil on top of water?
Now, in the places I used to fix things
I'm breaking them.
Where I used to clean up messes
I'm making them.
At work I'm combative or panic stricken
Sometimes even both.
At home, sometimes I get mouthy
But when I offer to help with my parents' money problems
It just makes it worse.
And it's not like I have any friends anymore
I shut them all out
Or vice versa.
Now, I know this is a ramble
But all I want to know is
When will someone come to save me?
When will one of the people
Who I used to protect
Step in to help me
Clean up my messes
The way I fixed theirs?
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
The joint in your hand quaked
Under the pressure of your diagnosis,
Its flame slipping into the air,
While your last puff trickled into left lung.
At first you smoked for depression.
Now it was a cry to God,
A beg for mercy from lifeless feet,
A trip down a flight or two of stairs,
A fall in the shower.
I didn't know how you would walk again without your toes
Knees
Hips.
But I learned your condition is a silent killer -
it started with the smallest flakes of skin,
As Satan lit an accurate match to singe your nerves.
You told me you had MS
And I didn't know why your breaths became frantic,
Or your tears screaming.
"Mean spirited",
"Mouthy sister",
Was what I told my friends.
God was playing jump rope with his spinal cord.
Multiple sclerosis didn't roll off my tongue so quickly,
first attempts were stutters at best -
I had to grow up first.
And while I was lying about your health
You were in agony over your grandmother,
Dead for five years on a stained hospital sheet.
In the end she begged for death,
And we have years to go.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC