"sandpaper" poems
she is outspoken and bold
bold like the sun
bolder than an army of boulders
falling from a hillside
she is an avalanche
when there is nowhere left to run
she is despised by some
and others wish to fill her
with some old fashioned whisky
i am sanctified by her ways
and returned to my former glory
as this poem has tasted far better days
she is a morning glory
her eyes are like the petals of a flower
she is the Wordsworth of the decade
a wordsmith dancing in her own decay
i am essentially a target
a lost projectile in the arrow's path
she has coaxed me back to sanity
with her sardonic gestures
and her sarcastic use of wit
i am a nitwit she said
so i laugh and pick the flowers from her hair
slowly and soporifically
i am seaweed adrift in her bonnet
sandpaper scattered along the shoreline
remove the blind spectacles
and eat the lines i’ve written
a poem is just a candle anyway
to spray the eyes of infinity with lightning
mars is retrograde regardless
so i’ll just sit here and pretend
that i’m not too much of a target for her beauty
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
it hurt her;
every single bits
and pieces of
flowers she vomits;
they tasted like
sandpaper,
they hurt like
the feeling of
being stabbed in
the back by the
person you love
the most (both
physically and
emotionally),
but what hurt her the
most is that
he wasn't really
worth dying for—
but she was afraid
of losing him;
of forgetting the
feeling of loving him.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
if, somehow, you could see how high & dense your fortified groves has gotten
you wouldn't be asking me why i'm trying to get to you like a giraffe gets to the
leaves in the trees, because your barrier is like barb wire tangled around your
wrists and, almost like a failed lobotomy, you're as mad as a hatter, and the
ribbons that tied us together tightly unwoven it's knot, and i'm so careful in
finding the pieces of worn bricks to tear down and not break you in the process
the fear left me restless, without a doubt, you get helpless after a while and
start believing that sandpaper and silk are similar, but they aren't textured the
same in reality, yet who even really knows what is wrong and what is right?
maybe the puzzle pieces get worn over time and they're not even considered
to be pieces to a puzzle anymore, it's like putting together a falling apart pie
- kra
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
you liked the arch of my brow and the spirals of hair i'd brush off of my face
yet after you all i would've liked was to be anyone else,
to have the summer shade of my skin fade
the curl of my hair to reach around my neck, choking me until i wasn't me anymore.
until i looked like anyone else.
with u, i was pretty.
you made me believe that the way i would think was unlike any other yet after you, all i could think was why and why and why
and how i missed the sandpaper sound of your voice and why and Why why why.
with u, i had a maze of a mind
and a heart worth more than gold
Dec 28, 2017
Dec 28, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
A sandpaper tongue
Brushed across my skin
One last time.
That alone was worth
The 850 dollars it cost
To say goodbye.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
sometimes i feel like i’m two creatures caught
b
e
n
e
a
t
h
skin
sharing one body.
my tongue rough- sandpaper, broken glass, too many curses
while the lips around it burn with apologies
fleshy brooms sweeping up the messes
of another woman.
i feel like there are two animals
each fighting for their right to shine through
they’re voracious in this battle— it surprises me that their clawstalonssteeth don’t break through the thin expanse of flesh to the outside.
i have two women living within my skull
one wildroughfighting— slinging glasses and insults.
face paint, bones and bottle trees, fire and ash
wet pine needles under bleeding feet.
the biting creature who leaves bruises on the lips of men.
the warrior, Artemis. laughdancing through flames.
a bear, a wolf, a cat, a bird.
animal in nature.
the other fights with words.
elegant, gentle, soft, break able-- everything the other
cannot afford to be.
goddess of the hearth, she feeds her comrades like children
keeps fires stocked with woods
and binds bleeding arms.
this woman carries pitchers of water
writes sweet letters to missing friends
and opens her soul to many lovers.
am I some crude splice of these creatures?
am I a ******* of these mothers— each passionate
one biting, brackish tides, slow moving rivers, still ponds
the other a warm, clean bath?
am I both simultaneously, or am I wearing one face while the other
watches behind mine eyes?
I am the moon—
full and loving, dark and hiding
and something in between.
yeah, that sounds about right.
something in between.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
her mouth was sandpaper.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.
her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
*i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.*
bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.
her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.
her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.
her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
he spends his time
rowing through the
rugged, blockaded channels
of my catharsis,
the bitter staccato
of ****** habit.
his love
can be as jagged
as gashes in an
Elvis Costello record
thrown against the wall--
the frayed words of the last love song
Billie Holiday ever uttered.
he is two
exclamation points lit on
fire, kerosene pumping through
tautly wound muscles and
caressing our funny bones with
sandpaper.
he is
dulcit woodwind melodies
and jilted viola strings,
epic poetry and grindhouse theaters,
McQueen gowns and thrift store bargains,
the kiss on the forehead
and the nudge for a *******
he is a double helix.
he is the beginning
and end of every sentence.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
so, with israel being re-established...
why do we, us,hit
europeans... even need to bother
establishing authority,
utilißing the new testament?
i quiete like the old testament
logic of:
oculus per oculus
(eye for an eye)...
because the saxon concept of
justice: i rather see...
the implosion of
blackstone's formulation...
the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10
ratio of...
a shawshank redemption...
there is... redemption...
since! there's no justice within
the post scriptum of
the hillsborough disaster...
watching people walk, the lunatic walk,
20 years later?
disorientated by the court
of justice?
re-dem-ption...
the whole aspect of: innocent until proven
guilty is horrid!
this... saxon vernacular of
that branch of philosophy that's
bogus...
namely... within origins
of the forbidden fruit...
i.e. and you know?!
really?!
no... but i'll **** to make
a standing pivot of a pawn
on a chess-board.
savvy?
who, among the europeans...
actually needs such artifacts
as new testament texts, credo,
orthodoxy, sign of the cross
greek exports?
the state of israel has
been re-established...
i don't want anything to do
with this judeo-grecian banality...
you can have you little affair over
n
e w
s...
don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm
watching... people tell a lie...
yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum...
am i, or are there any arizona
inbreds?
who, the hell, needs, the news testament,
within the confines of history,
dispossessing europe of it,
of an established jewish state?
one book among many...
hence the scent of a yawn...
when entering a library...
i'll do one gesture, and one gesture
alone... inclined to a replica...
ecce libra!
i wash my hands from
having any investment in it.
**** the greeks can have it...
they can keep it, cherish it,
but they better not spaghetti the old testament
with their... "ingenious" plot...
not when the nag hammadi library
emerged...
no... not now... not ever...
i detest this greek book of overt
symbolism...
their pristine alphabet,
their diacritical application,
with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf...
or blind... whichever it is...
sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch...
of inflated... soft... flesh?
i'll rip your heart out
and feed it to my neighbour's dog,
beside a bowl of water.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Every time we speak
I feel like things are looking up,
no matter what we speak of,
a residual glow is left behind, pineapple cake and birthday wishes; perhaps
we can move to new york after all.
Perhaps this will not be forever.
Drawing lessons and 1 am photos
are what is keeping me alive right now,
a protective world to shield me from the sandpaper reality
And I hope to god that when I call you at midnight
you feel the same.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
the darkest of my fantasies whisper
Your body is a scuba suit
insist i breath with your ******* through your mouth
dive deep into claustrophobic waters, sink heavy to the rock bottom
where we petrify by gorgans gaze
i know we'll turn to stone because, of course, the gorgans can't resist gazing at You
nobody can resist gazing at You, land or sea.
Our permanent legacy, lost under layers of life
barnacles clinging, moss burying Our chimera god/snake skin
i am without Your oxygen
when breathing would terrorize the wind
where words belong
still, my forked tongue writes
i'm a theif to say i only want You to be happy
when i had You, it was still selfish
the revolving doors of pain and perseverance
more time invested in us
then money invested in the Pills that kept me from killing You
out of habit
You begged me to beat You
it's been seven hands dealt
rubbing my 5 o'clock sandpaper chin
on the tarot card of death
my tolerance for vacancy
a brownish red stain
i've only the thin line of medication between necrophilia and sociopathy
i want to lay with You at the bottom of the sea
**the Pills... where are...
please no, God.
The Voice, run!
get out!**
*I would gladly go to prison
to **** your lifeless body.
I would gladly **** Myself in the afterglow
of your affection.
there is only one true Sin, Objectification.
I indulge relapse
in every memory, find
your shed snake skin
pull it on, like your *******
how disturbed I've become
with you gone*
how selfish of you
of course "I" blames You
when the Pills dull
i indulge by studying Your location
i know where You escape too
i want to go there
does that scare You?
i want to bump into You
apoligise for what i want
"want" as a word
is like plexi-glass, or kevlar
standing between Us
keeping the bullet safe.
i want a hard impact
in a school hallway
where we drop all our
Books and look up and You
see my ghost, that would be enough for Me
i want the impact to hurt.
i want the tumbling of all our Book's
i want the messy hair and ripped knees,
then Our
eyes to meet
and linger
I want to watch the fear fill you.
i want to sit there,
watching.
petrify from parcel tongues
as i gaze at Your gorgon body
shedding skin
if i shed my snakeskin,
maybe i'll see You
i can't leave this Poem
i can't leave this Poem yet
i won't leave this Poem
please kick me out
Poem
Poem
end Me
..
end
.
I
..
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
touch
bumpy
sandpaper
ridged
crusty
sight
half moon shape
yellow
green
purple
taste
lemony
cherryee
limey
purpley
smell
good
like sugar up my nose
like lemons
like cherry
sound
crunch
squish
crackle crackle
yum yum
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Many have heard that “No man is an island.”
And over most circumstances, no one has control.
So I ask you… “Have you found purpose for your life?”
“With your identity, are you fulfilling your role?”
Escape the snare of delusional grandeur,
for God Almighty has an assignment for you.
Are you prepared with your life skills
and has your Kingdom mission come into view?
Previous individuals came to you (before me)
and broke the fallow ground of your heart.
Has the message of Salvation burst within you?
Are you wanting to serve, but have not started?
Has the “sown seed” inside you… been watered?
Are you on the verge of a spiritual epiphany?
Do you require wisdom, guidance or experience?
Can you determine, why you’re unable to see?
The grittiness of human interaction serves us
as “sandpaper of life”, softening one’s spirit.
We’re to learn from each other, apply God’s Word
and strive to live life… without earthly limits.
Having vested interests in others
helps us to sincerely love one another;
walking in Godly unions and relationships,
bonds us as Christian sisters and brothers.
Remember the complete story of Queen Esther,
whose success was possible by efforts of Mordecai.
Become involved in the ministry of destiny helpers…
For Christ promised to meet our needs against His Supply.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
1 Cor 3:1-10; Esther
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
she sat on a driftwood throne
at her feet lay the ruins of a stone man
her hair a wild world of winds draws you into her hurricane eyes
her lip a forest of meanings tender and soft
a single loose tear like a wild horse run free
she sat on a driftwood throne in all her glory
sun and salt water cadence to the living breathing dream
song of existence untainted
and now another song intrudes
one of loves lionhearted and bold
seafarer's son come of age
come seeking courtship of her soft hand
to be bound in the silken desire's both hot and sweet
and the dark ones such shy girl dare not speak
he brushes away the sand from her soft thigh
and within his mind romances such sweet
tender spot with a reign of kisses
but just then she arose graceful like the soft beatings of dove's wing
and emerging from the veil of his minds fanciful dreams
she laid before him her sandpaper eyes
so intense that summer sounds
like children at play and such soothing tones
could not hide her behind
he withdraws still no more than a child in her eyes
she desires a stronger, a true love
one that is not a fleeting fancy dream
one of a man who can speak his heart
the sand had invaded her driftwood throne
so into the dusk she sauntered slowly
with graceful flow
trailing his eyes behind her like glories of wishes
like worshiping doves
for such beauties perfection
he will return some day a man
once he has learned
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
I’d love you less if you were here
crowding my dorm bed, nibbling me,
rubbing me like sandpaper
I’ve come this far all by myself
I am a stone, leave me alone
Let’s keep it nonchalant
don’t kiss me on the lips
don’t label this a situationship
because then one of us would need to care
Feb 19, 2022
Feb 19, 2022 at 9:50 AM UTC
One by one,
I have watched each of my relationships dissolve into bitter words on my tongue,
Like "I still look for your face even though you're a thousand miles away."
"I am in love with someone who doesn't exist anymore."
"You are the one thing I regret giving up."
"Forgive me for destroying you. I didn't know to be with someone who wasn't as broken as I was."
So you'll understand why I say that I was never one for love stories.
Marriage vows sounded like the screaming echo of future arguments,
Kisses looked like purple bruises, rather than happy endings,
And the only absolute truth I knew was that getting everything you wanted was just a precursor to losing it all.
Which is why this is not a cheesy tale of romance
but of something much greater
Of friendship that could shatter the world with its strength
Of an empty shell of a person who only knew how to drown and the girl who taught her how beautiful it felt to burn
Of two teenagers who may be microscopic to the universe but are worth galaxies to each other.
This is seeing what love has the potential to be:
Thinking the same thing so many times we could fill an ocean if people still said "you owe me a soda"
Whispering into the phone at 3am to talk about high school drama and our favorite teachers and a boy we used to love.
Biting tongues so that our bursts of laughter don't wake up our roommates.
Talking about everything and nothing, all at once.
This is realizing that love is not companionship.
It is completion.
So this is to my best friend:
A long time ago, I made myself a new skin out of sandpaper and sarcasm to scare away anyone who could ever love me
But now, I have never meant anything more literally than when I say that I cannot live without you.
And if you are the story of my life, then I swear, it is the one that I will never stop re-reading.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
Ragged mountains and rough terrains,
Withstanding storms and heavy rains.
Warm rays of sunshine bring light.
Bearing hues of black and white.
To the touch it feels like a freshly mowed lawn.
A promise of tummy tickling at dawn.
A relaxing walk in an uninhabited forest.
A tempestuous hike to the top of Everest.
You could be a renegade or a mad scientist
An investment banker or electric guitarist.
A biker's beard could be just as immaculate.
Rough as sandpaper or soft as velvet.
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:00 AM UTC
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties
Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims
Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt
Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour
Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin
Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over
Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks
Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving
See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve
Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
there is a man in my dreams.
he is tall
with hair like gold,
and his eyes that are the colour of a raging ocean
and when i touch his face
it reminds me of worn down sandpaper
- a tad prickily, but it is home.
with broad shoulders that make him look like he knows exactly where he's going
he just grins like he knows the secrets to the universe.
i hope one day im as confident and comfortable in the universe as he is.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
traffic in dreams
the deeper the love
the longer it will be to pay it off
deeper the diamond to carve from your heart
the darker the desire
the more cold cash
the harsher the wind in the lonely night
take sandpaper to your luxurious soul
but you keep its stain from your pretty eyes
pretty face barter for fish n chips
pretty words barter your bed and breakfast
dress it all in fashion from magazines
the strange combination of gloss and paper thin disguise
the strange combination of truth and lies
the greasy haired stranger
peers with all his might into the mirror
trying to find the man hidden within
he traffics in dreams
will sell you a plot of land
and the rainbow that comes with
ten by ten souls wide
ten by ten deep
sell em to you for a taste of the pretty
sell em to you for a touch of the tender
so rancidly reflected in his greasy smile
you thought the weight was easy to bear
thought that the lie you tell yourself suffices
but dreams are brittle thin walls you hide behind
watch the cracks spread across the pretty picture
it is painted with
watch the colors fade like sweet summer sunshine
the sweet wine turned bitter like tears
he sells you a dream that must be forever replaced
with an ever darker version
he sells you a lie that you will come to see vividly
it won't taste so sweet for so long
it will taste like dust
it will taste like loss
you seek him out once again in the dark city passage
his greasy hair fallen long ago
skin gone gray
he found the man in the mirror
he found his answer in all the chaos
tastes like dust
tastes like bitterness
seek him out to find he is gone
only a shell remains
a brittle shell
no-one gets cheap seats
without paying the price
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
I should have kissed you before you ****** on your smoke,
Before the fluorescent elevator lights illuminated the flaws
That danced and drifted along your skin.
The thick smoke mingled with your shadow,
A shadow of a man; no face, only a cigarette.
You breathed in smoke, but your lips were positioned for a kiss.
I don’t look like the other girls, the ones you used to kiss.
I can still picture your eyes, reddened by smoke,
And your lips as ashy as your cigarette.
And I hoped you, too, could forgive my flaws.
Like how my body casts too wide of a shadow,
And the sallowness of my ordinary skin.
Things that really shouldn’t remind me of your skin,
like old leather books with burnt paper that I bet taste like your kiss.
Such books I read in the shadow,
And hide, like the way you hid behind your smoke.
Because, like the way I love a bad book and its flaws,
I could love you and your cigarette.
I’ve held your hand, the one that holds your cigarette,
And I felt the sandpaper of your skin.
I smelt the airy cologne you use to cover the flaws.
It smelled light; you used just a kiss.
Now, I smell only smoke,
And the memory of your touch is a shadow.
In the hospital you were no longer a shadow,
But a body, surrounded by walls as white as your cigarettes.
Your voice cracked from the smoke,
While needles pulsed life into your skin.
Your lips were cracked with only blood to kiss.
I saw you naked, and I saw your flaws.
Your favorite vice was your fatal flaw,
And the black fire of death became your shadow.
It followed you around, and it saw our first kiss,
Which was our last, because you chose your cigarette.
So a charcoaled monster brooded beneath your skin,
And your flesh succumbed to the white ghosts of smoke.
You died in smoke, from your flaws.
Your skin’s now dust, roaming with the shadows.
So I’ll smoke a cigarette, ‘cause it tastes just like your kiss.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:46 PM UTC
For the girl who doesn't know how to say no:
I have been a version of you too many times
I have worn your body on frequent occasions
Always physically neutral, stock-still
Denying purpose into static
Eyes open
And breathing
I know exactly how it is
To not know how to refuse
Or resist when rough palms press on your skin
I know how it is
To feel there is no other option
But to lie still while eager hands pull at your body
Uninvited lips stepping into your mouth
How quickly a tongue becomes a weapon
I know it all too well
It is iron-clenched fists
It is unforgiving friction
And disintegration becomes second nature
For a girl whose limbs
Are already paper-made
Stares burned into too many white walls
A woman watching her own shadow
And the word no never escapes the vocal chords
Because there is never a question to answer to
It is assumed
That our shared pulse is enough yes
And consent is an easy thing to ignore
When it is hardly ever asked for
Men are taught to halt
Only if it is preceded by screeching
I wonder how many silent cries
Are covered by darkness and heavy breathing
This is for the girl
Who doesn't know how to say no
For the girl who chokes on her words before they can leave her lips
For the girl who freezes in uncomfortable situations
For the girl who has played mime too many times
For the girl who has been made surface to sandpaper hands
For the girl who is always vocal
But in a single instant became victim to chokehold silence
This is for you
I have been a version of you too many times
I have worn the fingerprints on your phosphorescent skin
I have pulled off your clothing after a night of detachment
I see you in every mirror I look into
Every stained glass reflection
I hear you every time he doesn't ask
It is so easy
To forget you have a voice
But I know with certainty that you do
I know
That you understand the stillness
The quiet
The hush
The absence of language
Words held hostage
You are the only one
Who bares the heaviness of night kneeling on your chest
The added weight from all those
Who have touched you without permission
I want you to know
I would carry it for you
If I could
I want you to know
It is not your fault
That your calmness
Is often mistaken for compliance
It is not your fault
That you so quickly fall paralyzed
Playing statue may seem
Like the easy way out
But you were never meant
To stand still
We are built to listen through our bones
Your voice is a million vibrations
Received through the skin
You were made
To howl our names into the ground
Until the forest shakes its trees to their death
And no one is around
To hear it.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
These streets they
light into us like
waffle cone whipped suns
reeking permanent
reprehensible dawn of
afternoon trade -
carnivore carton carts
brimming blue rolling red
their way down the
coarse grain streets.
Their wheels brown wood
sandpaper rubbed
brown smoke
elbows smooth prattling
bells bellowing for
ice cream dark cookies
ice cream and cream
ice cream quite rocky,
we are
a road rising mellow and marsh
dreaming mallow yellow lazy
Sunday evenings.
Street lamps dinning bright white
cloth white ringing
church bells gold
smooth bells pure
sugar,
not cloying nor uneven
pouring down
levelled pavement catching
its taste but forgetting its
waffle cone
crumbling -
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
Your hands are not sandpaper
You can't round my sharp edges,
Or scratch away the good parts of me.
Your fingers are not cages
Capable of capturing my hopes and dreams
And tucking them into a dark corner
To be forgotten about
Until a rainy day
When I go searching for them
In every cardboard box stacked in the attic.
Your eyes are not black holes
That will **** me in
And spit me back out
In outer space untethered to anything
So that I may float around
Devoid of gravity
And responsibility.
Your hair is not a net
Which will tangle my limbs
And refuse to release me
Until I submit to your commands.
You are not a strong current
Beating me endlessly
Before sweeping me out to sea
Because I am capable of standing
On my own two feet
And walking up the bank
To dry land
And safety.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
My love, your eyes are nothing like the sun,
your long lasting gaze is dull and dazed,
as for intelligence; you possess none
and you leave me annoyed and unamazed.
The way you make me feel is disgusting,
sandpaper is smoother than your skin,
and I just can't stand to hear you laughing,
when all good humour you've forsaken.
You are oblivious and selfish too,
and you know I use this odious tone
my dear because I truely detest you!
so go now please and leave me alone,
Take your coiffed hair, and your crooked nose
go **** yourself and your asinine hoes!
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 11:24 PM UTC