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"preadolescent" poems
I remember creeping reverently past The yawning maw Snarling braches, overgrown foliage Sad eye sockets The defeated roof Listing drunkenly to the left The black spirals on the ground Where the fire had scored earth bare Crouched from the sanctity of the sidewalk Damp palm snaking back to Clasp tight My best friend’s hand Fear skittering up our spines We skirted past poisonous green weeds That swayed in the yard Unkempt and our eyes Darted, seeking, feral For movement in that open doorway Her shadow The witch Years pass Looking out into suburbia Manicured green boxes And cookie-cutter plans From my own cracked window My newly acquired reno, I spot a flash of moving colour From beyond the overgrown hyacinths A tousled flash of curls between the green Puzzlement ripples as Three lanky preadolescent forms Snake from the protection of my shaggy firs Thin chests taking a breath before Their whippy arms point accusing And I barely see a flash before The clutched rock leaves the Stupid-looking red headed one’s hand Crashing through my upstairs master And I hear it Witch, witch, where’s the witch? And I feel it. My eyes beadily narrow Peering over my bulbous nose Shoulders hunching Toes curl And I reach for The broom leaning next The painter’s cloth Grabbing on with knobbly fingers Hurling myself Out Of The door Their eyes widened Disbelieving As they spot me And thumbs clutched between index fingers They run Leaving me cackling Breathless While my familiar Looks up from Sunning her black self On the step.
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Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 7:49 PM UTC
diana-rae
Childish Superstition
I remember creeping reverently past The yawning maw Snarling braches, overgrown foliage Sad eye sockets The defeated roof Listing drunkenly to the left The black spirals on the ground Where the fire had scored earth bare Crouched from the sanctity of the sidewalk Damp palm snaking back to Clasp tight My best friend’s hand Fear skittering up our spines We skirted past poisonous green weeds That swayed in the yard Unkempt and our eyes Darted, seeking, feral For movement in that open doorway Her shadow The witch Years pass Looking out into suburbia Manicured green boxes And cookie-cutter plans From my own cracked window My newly acquired reno, I spot a flash of moving colour From beyond the overgrown hyacinths A tousled flash of curls between the green Puzzlement ripples as Three lanky preadolescent forms Snake from the protection of my shaggy firs Thin chests taking a breath before Their whippy arms point accusing And I barely see a flash before The clutched rock leaves the Stupid-looking red headed one’s hand Crashing through my upstairs master And I hear it Witch, witch, where’s the witch? And I feel it. My eyes beadily narrow Peering over my bulbous nose Shoulders hunching Toes curl And I reach for The broom leaning next The painter’s cloth Grabbing on with knobbly fingers Hurling myself Out Of The door Their eyes widened Disbelieving As they spot me And thumbs clutched between index fingers They run Leaving me cackling Breathless While my familiar Looks up from Sunning her black self On the step.
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64
Stagnate in the most disposition of this life, Slowly turning the **** to shut the door behind. Where the sound of the smacking metal clicks And the cycle of stagnation continues again. Is this my doing, my incarnation bring? Is this my slow trending’s doing? Now, awaken the beast inside, For since the time of preadolescent Which I had no control over. Vulnerable to have foreseen the truth That this beast will emerge once again. Devouring the mind’s weak spots Leaving no trace of my humanity insight. For this life was better off with the door closed And possibly never seeing that light shine. For no door is worth opening to or whom— Stagnate in the most disposition of this life.
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Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
samog
No Light Behind This Door
Stagnate in the most disposition of this life, Slowly turning the **** to shut the door behind. Where the sound of the smacking metal clicks And the cycle of stagnation continues again. Is this my doing, my incarnation bring? Is this my slow trending’s doing? Now, awaken the beast inside, For since the time of preadolescent Which I had no control over. Vulnerable to have foreseen the truth That this beast will emerge once again. Devouring the mind’s weak spots Leaving no trace of my humanity insight. For this life was better off with the door closed And possibly never seeing that light shine. For no door is worth opening to or whom— Stagnate in the most disposition of this life.
Continue reading...
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