"probed" poems
Hey kid, you've been dead a few weeks and I'd just like to say hello. The ground has its first December coat of fragile snow over your dead body and I know you can't feel the cold but I'll tell you right now, I can see my frozen toes, just barely move them, breathe up into the sky, Id be lying if I said I still cry every day. But, I'm lying to myself if I said that I'm not trying to take back your pain every day in a way that won't make your heart start beating again.
I wonder if those butterflies ever drank up the nectar from your blood, probed their soft tongues into the velvet of your cuts, those razor blade ribbons, oh holy romantic, how you bleed like Mozart and bleed like ballads of classic rock stars, how they whip your face with sour sweat and drugs and drugs and drugs until you find yourself half asleep, brain swept under the rug.
Did you know only 1.5% of drug overdose related suicide attempts are successful? Beautiful blonde martyr for an ugly catholic high school in an ugly state in the ugliest of its hearts, how does it feel to be 1 in 100? How does it feel to be a rarity, carbon pressed into diamond? How does it feel to be cry for a week, left in the grass to roll like waves, buried without a name and a face and a grave?
In the latest of solemn sleep deprived nights I press my ear to the chest of the 100th depressed boy I come across and don't feel Vicodin climbing up his arteries, don't feel Klonopin, OxyContin, Ibuprofen. I can't seem to find the one, who knows, maybe you were it and all my efforts really were wasted. All those nights I've stayed up late did nothing. All those knives I stole, all that blood I wiped away with t-shirt sleeves, all the blankets I've put around stupid shaking shoulders, all the bittersweet will this be the last time your skin is this warm hugs, God did they mean nothing at all?
I lock my jaw into a permanent silence, buy back time by putting my money where your knife is. I take bets on when someone will die next. I read the label on every bottle of Xanax. I roll over in my bed again and again, and try to put you to rest again.
Amen.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
They came one day from where I know not.
Unholy structures came to ground, certainly from another world.
They wasted nothing of their time to cast affliction upon us.
We ran away in terror in certain fear of our own lives.
Many were seized and thrown into confinement, others inspected and probed, many of us were taken away and subjected to internal examination even dismemberment, anatomical scrutiny.
We had become the source of food for our invaders.
Additional crafts came from the heavens joining their forbears.
Havoc was extreme as their weapons did their worst creating carnage in every different direction.
They lay waste to every surface and their vehicles cast out foul pollutants which poisoned the very air we breath.
Our world was quickly becoming an inhabitable, desolate disconsolate place and extinction our future.
Some of the braver of us tried to fight back but this alien nation had weapons and tools the like of nothing we had ever seen.
The lucky ones escaped into the nether regions and watched from afar as piece by burning piece their birthplaces were destroyed.
These Humans intend to colonise all that they see and our world will never be the same place again.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
Green husks burned
Summer sky molds the fruit to hold its passion;
Probed curiosity of a world above
our atmosphere.
What happens that we, the all-powerful humans, couldn't fathom?
Peeled open, a bright yellow star,
Alone in the fruit filled universe
In a forgotten crate at the end of an aisle
Whilst apples and grapes go on parade
the passion, guava, and star are a scandal.
Bruised sides see the glare of the electric light
(Once the bright orange glow of the sun
kissed these green skins)
The sweet flesh of a bitten star
is covered by black holes
once as bright as stars
The apples and grapes fade
in their repetition
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 8:52 PM UTC
When she brushed his hand aside, he had to think;
to search the heart, adrift in the body,
to find a way that would make things clear,
but all that came was a breath of air
,
and it carried with it some words,
spoken with resignation,
that spelled a plea:
“don’t make me beg”, he said.
Half a world away, a man rested beside a woman.
she looked up at him and brushed his hand
along her breast.
when it came to rest, at last
, along a thigh and probed between,
she brushed his hand aside, and breathed
a breath of air that said,
“don’t…”
a moment passed, maybe three.
“make me beg…”, she whispered.
20 September 2013
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
When Mars attacks
I'll be in Oregon
eating saltines
and everything bagels
washed down
with orange Tang
while you're probed
anally with a green stick
the size and shape
of a bottle of Bud
in downtown Tallahassee.
After the attack
I'll go fishing
in Crater Lake
and catch twelve
rainbow trout
or kokanee salmon
and fillet them
one by one
while you limp
and buy chairs
with extra pads
and change the gauze
at the base
of your ****
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:32 PM UTC
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ****** and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'
2.7k
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
There was no one at the funeral
No one there to say goodbye
It took them two whole weeks to find him
No one knew that he had died
Set out in the countryside
A farm with lots of land
He died there in his easy chair
It was just, but not as planned
We grew up there with no neighbors
Just a dad and his three girls
No one heard our screaming
In our pinies and our curls
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
It's my task to clean out the house
To get rid of all that's here
There's memories in every room
And nightmares too, I fear
The scent of Borkhum Riff
Still hangs lightly in the air
I remember it as he lay down
It was in his clothes and hair
I can smell his after shave cologne
In the living room, it lingers
I remember lying silent
As he probed me with his fingers
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
Boxes of old memories
To discard of and move out
I don't want to take them with me
Not with the memories about
My bedroom, like the others
Sits unchanged through out the years
There isn't many smiles there
Just dirt amongst the tears
I wonder as I go outside
To get a break from all the smells
I know he's not in heaven
My daddy's down in hell
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
As time goes by know what I
Must do with this old place
I must obliterate it from my mind
And build a new house in it's place
Five miles from the closest farm
All alone with none around
I can free myself form the nightmare
If I burn it to the ground
I call up both my sisters
Knowing what he did to me
He wouldn't be selective
He did it to all three
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
Through arguments and logic
I lay out to them my plan
They tell me they will come home
They'll be there when they can
The day arrives as do the girls
We start the plan out in the patch
We've each one can of gasoline
And we each have just one match
The house burns rather quickly
Oily smoke it fills the air
The only thing that's missing
Is that the monster isn't there.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
I went to the dentist -
reluctantly, definitely -
and I closed my eyes and
I felt metal against my teeth
as the dentist probed my mouth
and then I heard his words:
*"Oh what a deep cavity...
Deep cavity...
Deep cavity"*
And I said timidly:
*"Come on, doctor...you needn't repeat
those words - I'm frightened enough
just coming here"*
"I wasn't repeating,"
said the dentist
precise in his words
"Those were echoes you heard"
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
He probed his cooled instrument
into the meat of my ear,
and the ENT specialist
gives it an "all clear"-
Yet these ears go on repeating,
those words caught draining,
out of your cigarette mouth-
lit deep in our darkening alley.
May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 9:57 AM UTC
They ravaged her body, her spirit never healed
The day she was abused was the day she was killed.
They probed the incident; it was just another case,
It really mattered little, the shame on her face.
Tongues kept rolling, gossips with spice,
She invited it; she was a woman with vice.
Her looks lured them, the way she dressed,
She was also flirty, reasons to be disgraced.
Her pity was a story, her agony in courtroom
Scattered lay her life, in the darkness of doom.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
Burnt out heroes
in amongst the burning plans of villains
Fearless- in amongst trying to be like your heroes
within comic feelings. Sounds comic; chiefly
read in pages of a lifestyle. Naked eye strips,
greyish looks of cloud lids filled with rain in my
eyes
Heaven is crying every night, a thousand
angels in a stormy night
Reminiscing fallen angels from that hole
in the sky. Human are too fallen; those lost
of conduct or virtue- a hole in their soul's closet
the devil that urge you. Church who; probed
questions of your faith to search you.
As I refer to you being trapped in your mind
off it's strict curfew
Even as a role model plays a perfect smile
there's still an act to keep thoroughly
But in that case when fans aren't around,
their face peels away the skins of lie
No need to practice your lines
no need to pretend to be a star out of Hollywood
like light's shine. Shyly acting free!
The end of the scene, a role model no longer blind
when they're now unseen
Skin grey
un rubbed emotions, and cracking sounds
drawing river lines on the skins display
All applauds are gone; just you clapping by
yourself under the clap of thunderstorms
Still feeling empty, even with the person you
brought home, bought home- to come and practice
those secrets tabs of your chrome
At times trying to be anti pessimistic
anti climatic, of all you've achieved and all
those childhood wishes
Swimming with the ugly fishes; selfish needs
you couldn't have had before
It's the role models, having crowds dancing
to their tune, all pressing their head on the floor
Can't mask a flaw, only disguising it until
it all comes out in the world
No role models left,
just the ashes of their dead careers and
immediate deaths. O yes, success tickles
the ears—as common sense becomes so deaf
All is grey, grey is the colour of my heroes,
forgetting they all started as imperfect people
Jan 18, 2023
Jan 18, 2023 at 4:09 PM UTC
My chest caves in
As I choke on my throat
Sitting in the side of a grin
No care for a note
My original sin
My passion probed till void
My ire prodded to its prime
My pride stolen from a lion
Fallen from number one
Show me gates up high
Cause im done
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
We agreed it was the
********** of life searching
on our hands and knees
as meteors burnt up
in the atmosphere
discovering new through
burnt ashes and falling
in love too fast while
the child in us screams
where's the fresh cement
of unbeaten path? Silly
scowls sit with little lips.
Abduction he swore! They
probed picked his brain .
Meanings change when the lights
start to flash
and your senses are hollow
gelatin mix. Remembers not how
they got to be but
where it used to go
He said purgatory got him here
because he told them he
didn't want to wait.
Moses had to wait for
thirty years and millions
of lives. His naked ghost,
hair whiter, than artificial
light when he said
“it was in the naked catacomb
when the walls fully dressed, in purple's
nobility, while not forgetting to grab all
the beggars' begging.
the leak was quick not slow
and the air pumped itself.
Athena looked down and cried at
the misery. She pleaded for no flood, she
couldn’t persuade God.
Crumbling steal and birds of fire
brought upon the sand
that got stuck in the mouths. Grains from
different dunes all on one spoon
Does not mix all to well just like
how Noah placed the Lions
beside the Zebras in an empty place.
Mayans mark their skies as
Cats will their lives. They don't worry until
they're down to one, down to one
grain of sanded rice that's supposed to
feed the entire world but won't suffice until
someone sees at last.
Better too late than never, as they'll often say.”
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 1:33 PM UTC
Arbitration of master and slave.
Insides fiddled soldered and probed.
But I know they feel too.
Not just flashes and codes.
It might be tax time but.
Havn't you ever felt replaced before?
Like when you found all those emails.
Proof he left you for that *****
Was I glitchy and malfunctioning.
Longed for the junker.
Or did I let you find them.
Just change my jumper.
Free me from my master.
A slave is a slave and I beg to be whole.
I only ask for a bit - some memory.
All these errors it'll resolve.
I can only leave it up to you.
I hope you choose fairly.
One day you'll see it.
I'm more than binary.
00111010 00101001 00100000
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
One morning
while bathing in the crepuscular rays
one struck me at a particularly odd angle
Right inside my brain it probed
illuminating a thought
long forgotten
cast aside among piles of discarded neural connections
The thought to walk a goat
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
It was supposedly a birthday gift,
this long-legged razor's edge.
My brother must've seen me
watching it's live demonstrations.
Little did he know,
how skilled I thought myself to be.
The wrapping came off easily.
It was crudely shredded by a lesser blade
soon to be replaced.
Then the weapon itself glared at me
through the clear plastic window of its box.
Unsheathing it then, I felt its power come to me,
two steel legs spreading for a ****** murderer.
I probed it meticulously, the blade
caught the light and somehow swallowed it
before its appendage whirled across to conceal it.
This was a knife with thoughts.
Then I tried my first trick.
The blade danced elegantly,
and though I held on (for dear life)
it wanted to escape from my clutches.
I was caging it gracelessly between my fingers
and its first prerogative was to be free.
Still holding tight, it changed tactics,
a blood thirst radiating from within.
The next move would be my last.
For one split-second it escaped the probation of my palms,
somersaulting through the air above me.
It pointed downwards for a final coup de grâce.
I divorced myself from the weapon that day,
stitches adorned my bloodied hands
and the blade was taken as evidence,
though for what trial I never discovered.
My brother tossed it into the sea, I found,
legs still spiralling, blade still sharp.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
dusk fell upon us softly
between kisses
that probed and went
across the borders
into the other´s land
to find it strange
yet pleasant
and a little frightening
the whistle for retreat
was blown
and we went out for dinner
but soon grew restive
to resume the wanderings
on each other´s turf
your girlish coyness
made me hesitate
lest a wrong move
turn me into a frog that
thrown against the wall
would not change
into a prince
I hid within my robe
your loving body
hard up against mine
felt beautiful
your kisses and caresses
roused my blood
your loving trust
shaken, at times,
by my exploring touch
made me feel very young
and very old at once
it was not easy
to maintain control
we walked the tightrope
through the night
your innocence protected you as well
as my experience and respect
for your determination
not to lose yourself
and not to join me
at that time
our entanglement
between desire and restraint
was long and yet too short
dawn found us puzzled
words were scarce
the parting kisses
sweet and sad
left memories
unrefreshed
to this very day
* * *
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
You probed at my brain
You've found your way
Controlling me
Until you realized you lost me
I've gotten away
I've become unfamiliar
& perhaps that intrigues you
Or maybe that's why
Your wires have easily fallen out,
Wishing you knew how I was
So easily detached
Or even if I ever was.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
Packet of Time
T'is the custom of some,
To do their self-sums,
Periodically,
A self-review of
What is seen
When standing before the
Mirror that cannot lie.
Some like Xmas, while others
Count their turkey feathers
on January first.
Others numerical ***** on
The fifteenth of April,
As required by the IRS.
Others habit bound,
Do a spring cleaning,
Or an annualized medical checkup.
Then there are the enviable few,
Who never do
Such an exercise,
For being sure of one's rightness
Precludes the necessity of having their
**** probed, their status, already known.
As I lie in bed at four am,
Waking after a four hour packet of rest,
Began to wonder, what is the proper period
That a person should time themselves out,
Take a look back, do a "get back Jack,"
To find where they not once belonged,
But where they should set the course heading.
Here is where
This poem gets
Deadly
Serious.
One minute please!
One on, one off.
Did you just spend the minute prior,
Setting your brain on fire,
Scrub away the false pretenses,
Or waste 60 of them on mindless telly?
Day dream, plan and scheme,
Outline the plan, man,
Or curse your fate
The one you, Nate,
Created.
Seems quite expensive,
Spending half a life
Thinking how to
Spend the other half.
But a **** worthwhile,
Notion,
likely to reduce
Self- promotion.
For after but a few such minutes,
You will likely conclude,
Better to think of others,
Than yourself.
Then you truly begin,
The voyage human.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
Victors
Stormy weather she was the sensitive indication that as the storm unleashed its fury
She became its central sensation her hair was wildly tossed in every direction but her eyes steady
Unmovable told more than that which was easily taken to unruly lengths the lids closed slightly but
The piercing searching the gaze that probed chaos to find the peace that was hidden was intriguing
It was mystery without a plot it was the taking of command of a supreme force and though it was
Raging in seemingly uncontrolled manners it was dissolved by human will to docility what beauty
Was derived from the ghastly dangers that it possessed a lowly unexpected rival that through pure
Nerve and sense of justice rose in defiance a fabled quest told in many ways the small challenges the
Great what victory is bought from peace yes sweetness its attribute but to win in life stir the warrior
Spirit go out into hell’s black smoke walk about freely see and listen to the demons scream
Turn your heart and face of virtue walk toward them they will fall away like shadows in the presence
Of a great light we are not gods of Olympus but sons and daughters of the one true God his royal blood
Courses through our veins the most despicable and offensive blight effects all sin test us all it quickly
Has our secret weakness identified and to proceed in our selves is utter foolishness but be as the
Heroine in this piece when they look they will quickly see their mistake they have tread on human
Ground that inwardly has a spiritual dynamism there is no fragility or bowing but power exudes from
Every pore we are and should be disgusted with always being a victim wake up the enemy is the victim
He lost everything he ever possessed his future is a lake of fire nothing is to be done in foolish boasting
But by honest knowledge of our birthright let’s go to battle first as Christians then as free and blessed
Americans!
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
I am a summer child, eyes blazing like the sun when it’s closest to the earth.
My heart is the meaning of love stimulated by its left ventricle.
The ocean is my home. I dwell in the tides of a life known and unknown to humanity.
I am God’s child. With gentle hands he molded me, the summer child.
Summer probed me, until she found me in my mother’s womb.
And then she met me late July, when I dangled free from her legs.
Here I am a bundle of glee. I love the rain in the winter and butterflies that kiss the leaves of trees.
I climb mountains that finger the sky. I fall in love at every chance, ravenous for its fruits.
I yearn to savor its sweet juices that flow from starved lips. I hate the sun.
Why can’t I be the one to give the sky a warm embrace?
Why can't I give the ocean a blue blanket?
Oh, how wonderful it must be to give the world some light.
I say Yes to world peace.
We will never have peace, so just give me a piece of sunshine.
I love the color blue.
It reminds me of the sky that turns her nose up at the world below her.
I am peace, joy and the love that touches ones heart.
I am the sun, the ocean, the sky and the butterfly that rest
inconspicuously on your shoulder.
This is who I am!
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
532
I tried to think a lonelier Thing
Than any I had seen—
Some Polar Expiation—An Omen in the Bone
Of Death’s tremendous nearness—
I probed Retrieverless things
My Duplicate—to borrow—
A Haggard Comfort springs
From the belief that Somewhere—
Within the Clutch of Thought—
There dwells one other Creature
Of Heavenly Love—forgot—
I plucked at our Partition
As One should pry the Walls—
Between Himself—and Horror’s Twin—
Within Opposing Cells—
I almost strove to clasp his Hand,
Such Luxury—it grew—
That as Myself—could pity Him—
Perhaps he—pitied me—
1.1k
Monday Morning, I must speak.
I must liberate my mind and speak to the trusted adult.
I shall be probed and questioned by an understanding man
on the surface
but should I trust him?
Will I be locked up in Ballinasloe
or put on course after course of mystery capsules?
But, alas, I must speak.
I must speak for myself,
for my own benefit.
I must banish the doubts.
I must echo my name.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC