"scabby" poems
Glitter and gold is the man in the chair
with rings on his fingers
and the hardened harsh stare
blinded by ugliness
wrists chained down by no use
a man with much money
he spends on abuse
the term known as trafficking
familiar I’m sure
he’s never been one for
doing what’s pure
so he lays down his money
flings out his cash
says he’ll pay the full price
for the girl with the mask
just to touch her to feel her
pet her cold body with his
run clammy hands up her scarred legs
clamp her in his ashen fist
little boys too he will willingly harm
because trafficking to him is a sport
no need for alarm
Just cows in the system
of making ends meat.
The poor solemn dancer
the poor saddened soul
the poor battered spirit
angry that they’ve been sold
with ***** feet and scabby legs
they work to feed the king
the end from him they can only beg
And freedom will never ring.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
There's nothing left in you
For me to love
Not because
You're rotted
But because I've
Managed to love
Every part of you
From your split ends
To your hairy toes
Your scabby elbows
And scarred knees
From falling over and over
Your ice blue eyes
That have a talent of hiding all your lies
I even love the way
Your voice gets
When you shout
And you're angrier
Than I've ever seen
Because I've yet to find a part of you
That I do not love
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
are you feeling dark and gloomy?
black as a dusty chalkboard
spooky like foggy street lights
like bruises
and
gooey, scabby knees
are you feeling spooky?
do you want to hide in your white room
and put out cigarettes on your tongue
or press them to your curtains
do you want to set the room on fire?
how far will you go to turn your insides out?
you paint those walls with charcoal
from the inside of your lungs
are you hurt?
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
The
Decider-in-Chief
made
another
hard
decision,
rebebilitatin
a debilitating
Gaddafi.
The
Agog
Decider
sleekly
peeked
into the
bleak
soul
of the
master
Bedouin.
The
Pious
Decider
peered
pretty
deeply,
so its
hard to tell
what his
arcane
rebelations
revealed.
Some say
The
Jaundiced
Decider,
saw the
desert
bleeding
deliciously
malicious
sweet crude
onto the
scabby
tongues
of
Halliburton
Executives
while
Big Time
Vice
Dickey Boy
******
a petrol
nozzle
dry,
licking
the dripped
drops
that
drizzled
from the
shoot
hole,
so as
not to waste
a precious drop
to satiate
the black
viscous
goo
coursing
through
the ebony
veins of his
chingling
heart.
Others
say
The
Condoning
Decider
sized up
the man
and saw
a brother-in-arms
in the fight
against
The Evil Doers;
yet failed to
see the
revolting
obscenities
his new
comrade-in-arms
inflicted
upon his
own body
politic.
The
Forgetful
Decider,
blessed
with amnesia
forgot
Lockerbie and
applauded
BP's royal
court of
justice
for
pardoning
all perps.
The
Oblivious
Decider's
near
sightedness
failed to
foresee
a brewing
blow-back
amassing
in the
desert
winging
its way
home
on the
blasting
sands of
a blistering
Saharan
sirocco.
The
Pollyannish
Decider
envisioned
grand
spectacles,
only happy
visions of
Beyonce,
JZ, Usher
and the
Def Jam
Buddha
Russell
Simmons
yodeling
filthy
lucre
tunes,
sending
giggling
tweets
while
partying
down
with
Muammar's
posse
of martinets
and
way cool
far out
crazy
execs
drunk
with the
power
that blinds
the eye to
all discernment.
The Decider
decides.
Music Selection:
Lady Ga Ga
Beyonce,
Telephone
Oakland
3/3/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
She taught me
how to whistle,
folded a blade of
grass between
her teeth and
scared frogs half to death
in the woods
behind her house,
that chord struck
deep in the crater
she punched through
my heart
Her sandy skin
burned in the memories
of boys, who watched her
run across a field
with hair swinging
like a beacon, those
candied lips quick to laugh
at a passing joke,
they thought that
she belonged to them
But those lavender evenings
of junior high summers,
bikes and scooters lying
like faithful pets against
the hot pavement, chalky
hands with nails painted
resting against her
scabby knees, those knees
were my altars, I prayed there
more than I prayed in any church,
She was an anthem
unclaimed, she was
an American soccer girl
****** into a taste and color world
where she could be worshipped
by boys with football scars
and veins coated thick
with peanut butter & jelly,
she fell so hard that summer
cupped into the hands of
one after another, after I fell asleep
on the leopard carpet
of her bedroom,
I could hear her
whispering, and the
magma in my throat
filled to bursting,
the fireflies I'd cradled
in the bones carved
from her wrist --
I knew I'd never hold them
when the sun rose,
they escaped far too soon
This mosquito-stung life,
we wore our bites like
champions,
brought them home
to our mothers
until they would fade,
facing the plastic leaves
of autumn, I wanted to
stay locked
in her cage.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
Fiddle dee dum,
Fiddle dee dee
Everywhere leaves will rustle for me
Everywhere trees will dispense them for free
Oh, if i found a red one for thee
Of maple, oak, and sycamore, see?
Look! How they lift and float in the breeze
Pluck them out, PLUCK
They dodge and they tease...
Tumble down, THUMP
ARGGHHH scabby knees!
Fiddle dee dum, and fiddle dee dee
Everywhere leaves will rustle for me
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
You escaped
Through my fingers again
That answer which I
Have been clumsily chasing
With scabby scabby knees
Under starry starry nights
In quiet, lonely corners spent
Watching something indecipherable
A small answer
With such a resounding voice
Which I hope will soothe my brow
My nightmares it will quieten
An answer which I've been restlessly searching for
In the blood on my wrists
The scars that appear on my body-
Intentionally and otherwise
Digging open my heart and sometimes others
I rip them apart, stride (run) through recklessly
But when I leave, I don't leave a single mark
Sadness, weariness, desolation, isolation
All belongings of the poet
I will say hello to whichever one
I haven't greeted yet
Just so I can define and finally see
In all my sanity and insanity
That elusive, elusive answer
Born in starry starry skies
Starry starry cosmos
Descending beautiful
Maybe you might give me a kiss
In all your infinite knowing
Something too beautiful for this world
At the moment when Oblivion opens
Its arms to me
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
Could you love me,
Weak fingernails and all?
With that deep passionate love
That love that I've never felt
Not even for you.
Could you love me,
Scabby knees and all?
With a changing kind of love
That is the only kind of love
I've ever known
Could you love me,
Blistered tongue and all?
With a painful kind of love
That I know too well
When I'm not myself
And would you love me
When my fingernails break?
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
Now:
The EMTs respond.
A Jane Doe is found dead.
Beneath the I-90 overpass.
They lift her
Zip her into a bag,
And transport her to the morgue.
They can’t feel sad.
Today:
The few wispy strands of hair that remain
Dangle haphazardly from her scabby head
Jagged misshapen teeth protrude from dry cracked lips
betraying breath that stinks of infection and decomposition
Vermin gnaw on exposed flesh while parasites feast within.
Her eyes dim as her body putrifies.
Last Week:
Mission workers prop her up against the wobbly chain link fence
A thin blanket is wrapped around her bony shoulders and
Her blue-tarp awning is adjusted
She would be less wet and cold.
For a night.
They leave a cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup.
The rats eat most of it.
She wouldn’t have kept it down anyway.
Last Month:
The shelter is scary and dangerous.
She couldn’t sleep without nightmares and her screaming disrupted other ‘guests’.
The shelter workers apologize and put her out at 2:19 AM.
She finds a spot between two dumpsters.
It reeks of **** but is unoccupied.
Sometime in the dark she is ***** and beaten by two crackheads.
The crime is unreported.
Last Year:
The fluorescent lights sting her eyes.
The antiseptic smell burns her nose.
The noise and chaos that surround her make her dizzy and disoriented.
She fights hard to get away but is restrained by strong hands – then leather straps.
A painful jab in her arm and then nothing.
Days or weeks later she emerges in a haze.
Kindly eyes greet her.
They stay with her.
They accompany her to the shelter.
They tell her to come back for follow-on care.
She never sees them again.
Before:
The divorce rips her heart in two.
She has nothing.
She is nothing.
Her world crumbles beneath her and she crumbles with it.
Where would she go?
What would she do?
Everything has become so wrong.
Once Upon a Time:
She was happy. Joyful.
Filled with life and hope.
He was smart, funny, successful.
Together they were magical.
Perfect.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
She has skin cancer
scabby, dark, and misshapen.
Love brings the healing.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 2:34 AM UTC
There's a difference in these woods,
drifting between grey, scabby bark,
sifting into the moist, wormy soil,
beckoning for purpose,
breaking into the sound of a
becoming yet battered nature.
The footprints can be light, thorough --
almost a trait granted by the torture of eternity.
With head-weaves buoyant above tree-leaves,
a hyper-vigilance stemmed from the abuse
of a darkly philosophy weaponized;
an extension of the elbows, forearms, wrists
of huntsmen seeking inferno.
A hollow is an ideal resting place,
beyond the greased veins of trees,
fingertips delving into clustered black,
grasping an illusory livelihood,
only to imprison itself,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.
When love enters the picture,
it's best to fade into the skyline,
becoming a blue phantom,
hiding behind q-tip clouds,
balanced feebly, anxiously,
unable to realize
how easy you can be seen.
How easy it is to underestimate
your own significance.
You can drag a razor horizontally,
thinking the ink of space
will pour through, staining yourself,
watching yourself disappear,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.
-
I dance with her, a light caramel mutt,
in a purgatory of racial tension,
between black and white,
living in the grey area of society,
not knowing that it's okay --
and she is like me,
I've just realized.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
The teenager sits curled around
herself in rehab, matted hair, skeletal arms
bruised by needles, scarred wrists,
metal gouged grotesquely into and around
every orifice, sunken eyes exuding
a generous measure of fear and defiance.
God, She could be my daughter,
had my daughter inherited
my weaknesses and propensities.
Her demeanor tells me more
than her lack of words -
She is filthy, scabby, loathsome.
She looks at me and I can tell she's
thinking the same of me.
Judgmental *****
--
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 8:05 PM UTC
His ears are soft now, not scabby
His purr is deep and mellow
He played with catnip this morning
Now on my lap, nestled between my naked *******
soft fur, never knowing or caring my clothing status
fluids, pain killers, anti-nausea
I never thought it would help
but it has and today is a good day
almost like his old self
my thirteen year old pancreatic cat reborn
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Fed up with you now
Silly old cow
Stuck it this long
No idea how
All the photos, in the bin
In every one you're ugly as sin
That voice all the time
A shrieking whine
Annoy someone else
You're no longer mine
I'm perfectly sure I won't miss you a bit
You ghastly wizened gnarly old ***
With your drab grubby clothes
And concordian nose
Your pointy hat and stinky old cat
As if there could ever be another
I do believe you've become your mother
With your stupid concoctions and ridiculous spells
You really should be thrown down the well
Can't wait till you're gone, along with your pong
Your shriveled-up bits and ridiculous stick
You really are a hopeless old fool
You belong on a ducking stool
So before you incur any more of my wrath
Bugg off, good riddance you scabby old goth
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 PM UTC
scabbed scab upon a
scabby scab.
scratch the scratchy
scabby scab with
scaly fingers and
shaky scrapy screams.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
Ya'll recall a devil went down, to Georgie, I believe it woz…
Well, that idea,
it comes up now, and then,
we have to pop it.
that is our duty, what we do, we pop
particular bubbles when they surface, it's included in the service, involve meant, on your part,
or role as you may say, non-quest.
Such bubbles, as evil as have ever been imagined,
do arise, from time to time.
This time we always pop them, it is our honor,
as agents of the I'll go rhythm that
makes us even imaginable,
in the first place.
… it's about self-government…
such bubbles emerge,
as they always do because nothing is hidden that
hasn't been known,
otherwise,
life would be un fair, and it's not, it's fair, beauty-filled
in every
crack and crevice and encrusted scabby festering
wound wound in linen,
white linen,
as cold
as the clay, that song, you must recall that,
that was your destiny, young outlaw, you saw it,
that's why
you took you guns to town, boy.
Life's about choices.
Christmas means the anointed message.
What does anointed mean, on the street,
what do people think Christmas,
I mean
anointed message
means? Jahknowaddamean.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
You have green teeth you scabby *****
No one else will want you more,
Can't do better,
I'll tell you so.
I'll keep on ,
I'll let you know!
You will not go,
Not leave my house,
Cower as a frightened mouse,
You're not leaving,
I don't care,
Grab you,
Swing you by your hair,
Punch my fist around your face,
Cause you make me sick,
Will demonstrate prowess of evil demon,
Kitchen knife displayed,
Locked the doors,
Barred the windows,
You can't escape,
I got ya!
Vile man,
Spited me,
Actually spat at me,
Full abuse and over use,
My God,
I was so stupid,
This man was no flaming cupid,
I was so controlled to see,
He never really wanted me,
I was his sucker,
Not crazy *****
Nearly lost my family,
Close to losing friends,
Affected my son,
He was the disgrace!
Not Me,
My teeth aren't green,
I'm always kind,
I won't do that again,
Don't need that kind of ******* pain!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
You hope that when you die,
You will be promoted to some
Playground in the sky.
To live again for eternity.
But how will you be seen?
The 5 year old with scabby knees?
Or 15 with a touch of acne?
25 with life laying ahead
An 80 year old thinking of the dead?
I hope you know none of this can be
It just doesn't work, logically.
I suppose you may mention the soul,
Or patronise saying we will never know.
Yet know this,
None have come back to tell their tale.
To save us the horror?
Or not to ruin the show?
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
When you’re thirty, you’re supposed to know
things already. You’re supposed to have
your **** together. A wife, maybe
even a kid. But this man still felt
like a boy. Shrugging life away
with cigarettes stealthily
torn from the box,
afternoon breaks
whistling through the
scabby throat, weeping silently
into his cigarette, smiling empty through
the golden tint of a pitcher of beer. Sadness sat
in his eyes and it never seemed to go away. The sadness
made him look younger, more innocent. He thought no one noticed.
But someone did.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that can't speak.
Hi my names Lauren and I love things that break their own bones and choke on their teeth.
Hi my names Lauren and I see kids with bruises, kids with no excuses, kids with cuts, kids howling at the moon like mutts. They're begging to get out of their skin and into a more feral suit, they want their bite to be worse than their bark, hang themselves in the park, finally be noticed, glowing smiles like that of an alley cat, spat out blood last week, "must've been the pills, that **** kills."
Hi my names Lauren and I forget my name a lot. I write it in the hearts of heartfelt hoodlums, not so brave victims, mothers' worst nightmares, mothers who don't care, boys who dare set themselves on fire, light it up ****** you aren't getting any brighter.
Hi my names God and I ****** up.
Hi my names Lauren and I talk to the dead. They tell me about the papers they keep under the bed, poems no one reads and suicide notes with things unsaid.
Hi I'm Lauren and the dead can't dance when they speak. They're not too steady on their feet, dangling from rafters with chairs beneath.
Hi I'm Lauren and I ****** up, you ****** me up. You won't talk to me, and he won't look at me, and dad can't stand me and mom tries her best to understand me and I once hit my head so hard on the wall I fainted. Yes mom, it was on purpose. I thought we painted that pretty picture in my blood months ago.
Hi I'm Lauren and I write poems that don't lie about the truth, I write poems about depressives, lost boys, starving boys, ****** boys, and my boys. Those all go hand in hand. I write poems about heartache, bone break, undertake, and personality fake. These are all the same. I write poems about things I've seen, things I've done, things I've ****** and threads that were spun into ropes tied into nooses and put behind the pile of ***** laundry on the floor. I write about pills in dressers and knives in scabby skin and how much I hate god but love his children and how my brain is broken and I'm still stuck hoping I'll be left with something to write about next time I forget my name but can remember yours.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC
Does a mirror show the truth?
I could be a girl for all I know,
Or look like one at least.
Might be so ugly,
Or very handsome.
A monster
Or Tom Cruise.
That mirror
Like a television
May have a life
Of its own.
So if that glare
Should ever be switched off
(For any reason)
Then my real image
May resurface:
A scabby, gargoyle horror
Mutated
From atomic war.
Or, some radiant beauty,
Freed from the mirror’s
Shining cell.
Mirrors!
Paul Butters
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 1:53 AM UTC
In my 7th grade English class, we spent half the year analyzing the works of Emily Dickinson because "poetry is Gods gift to the voiceless".
Two years later I would meet a girl who cried verse
and bled syllables
whose notebooks were filled with melancholy metonymy
and she was Gods gift but I have never heard anything louder than the graphite screams etchedin her words.
Poetry is Gods gift to the voiceless but I didn't know.
I didn't know people could be
flesh and blood
and bone and
poetry.
I didn't know she would wring metaphors from my lungs,
snap my bones into line breaks.
I didn't know she would slow my heart to keep time or scatter my middle name when she couldn't find the right letter and I didn't know she, with her scarred fingertips and scabby lips would turn me into
poetry.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 10:25 PM UTC
Her hairy old **** was full of scabs and cheese
Didn't stop me from going down on my knees
I spread her lips and brushed away a fly
Then slipped my tongue so deep inside
My God, she was a real filthy old *****
Her ****** did smell, oh what a stench
Never had I been down on something so foul
But I'm a sick ***** I went for the growl
The ***** hair was full of *** and ****
Had the ***** ***** wiped her **** on it?
There were even traces of menstrual blood
Does she *** normally or does she flood?
I was ******* her **** didn't want to hurt her
How was I to know that she was a squirter
She shot *** and **** all over the ceiling
Oh what a sight, oh what a feeling
Then I filled her hole with my scabby old ****
Yes my pecker was covered with warts and pox
Maybe you think we are two filthy, ***** freaks
But she loves my ***** banging on her **** cheeks
When we had finished, a sight I'd never seen
She called the dog over and he licked her clean
That was more than i could take, it's true
I had to go outside and have a great spew
But I'll go back again, there is no doubt
Coz that shiela loves, for me to eat her out
And I can never forget how well I rode her
While getting off on her smelly body odour
Next time, if she's got the rags and is a bit red
I'll just stick it up her ******** instead
I'm not fussy, my tongue will still be stuck in
Nothing wrong, my friend with the Dolmio grin
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
Scabby fixes on brick trinities
Nouveau riche social climbers
empty holes
rubbled interims' morning glories
rats jovial
Someone's been killing the cats
Three half squares broken open
Shorn wallpaper on each
Large machinery
downing old world's new world
Kickball is
only legend to internet urchins
Sitting on stoops
punching thumbs on cellular
apparatus for the ages
Doohickey haves
Doohickey have-nots
If there must be urban renewal
leave me cherry Italian water ice
at a buck a pop
I don't much care for
Cold Stone Creameries'
Green Tea and Lychee Martinis
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 2:34 PM UTC
Slouched atop the bookshelf resting his fluffy head
against much loved Rudyard Kipling's finest.
He watched the day to day stories of King Anthony
'The child ruler of the world' and his beloved younger sister Anya.
Avoiding arguments downstairs in the dying segments of daylight,
the boy's reassurance to Anya showcased rare moments of humanity
not seen by Little Weissel's beaded eyes since occupied Holland.
Amongst his stuffing was still memories of his first best friend,
in which many a day was spent quietly hiding away,
listening to the sound of boots roaming around the house.
King Anthony reached his hand out in full view of the aged bear's face
and plucked him from his perch.
As warm as the bear felt to him, he felt to this plush relic, whose eyes
would dilate in the melt of such moment if only they could.
From his arms passing down to her trembling ones;
she was looking for solace in the wake of mother and father's quaking
voices in the kitchen.
For Little Weissel it seemed like 'what was old is new again'
and now after spells after neglect he was experiencing a second
lease of life.
As the war downstairs fizzled out into quiet evening, King Anthony and Anya were locked together, both tenants of sleep with
Little Weissel just as lovingly clung to as the first moment he'd been clutched.
Maybe in the new harsh terrain, the scabby mass of the little bear
could once again feel the need to be needed as any good plaything deserves to be.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC