"sloppily" poems
I will always think fondly
Of the park bench
Near the sad man’s statue
Whose beard of stone
Was sloppily painted
By a bunch of overenthusiastic pigeons
That silly park bench
Where we first kissed
And had our first public argument
About nothing at all
And at the same time
About everything we thought we had
At first our memories
Turned the grass greener
And the skies bluer
And sometimes it seemed
That sad man smiled
Though it might have been an malevolent grin
But soon it became tainted
A symbol of fleeting love
Of passion’s mortality
Its habit of swiftly disappearing
Like cagey, distrustful pigeons
And illusions fuelled by sentimentality
Now I understand the sad man
And consider his faith to be cruel
To want and crave and hope
Yet to be sentenced
His life writ in stone
Near an empty, broken bench
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a *****
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
6.6k
Waste my time.
Distract me from the pain of other earthly things.
Raise my Hope from the dead.
Give it mouth to mouth,
Sloppily,
Spit-flying,
And So *****
Inflate its lungs.
Out & in, in & out.
Bruise its lips.
We all are just Living to die.
Right?
Take me to church--
Show me God, boy.
Bring me to my knees,
Make me sing his praises.
Shed your tears on my bare back while we break classroom desks apart.
Piece by piece,
You use me.
You shape me,
And Create me into yours.
Make me wear skirts with stockings.
Make me play nice.
Make me smile.
You know you want to.
Make me wear fishnets.
Make me tease you.
Make me want to please you.
I know I want to.
Let's play dress up for the night.
Let's Spider-Man climb the walls of our insecurities and broken hearts.
Let's bite each others shoulders,
Don't you wanna get primal with me?
Tell me I'm pretty.
Say it,
Say it,
Say it.
Be good and I'll reward you.
Be bad and I'll ignore you.
Make me feel all nasty.
Make me feel so graceful.
Make me feel so perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Let's just pray I don't fall.
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 10:23 PM UTC
The boy haden't bathed in over a month
His **** crack was itching and burning
His underpants were soaked in slimy, wet muck
And his toes a thick jam were churning
His armpits stank worse than a fat pigs raw ***
His breath smelled like rancid fish
His hair was so oily, matted to his head
His own mother wouldn't give him a kiss
"Enough!" he cried as a passing fly died
When he raised his arm to exclaim.
"I must bathe right away! I am long overdue!"
"I sure hope the washcloths are brave."
"To the bathroom man!" He shouted as he ran
And his underpants sloppily squished
"I will remove this filth and brush my green teeth"
"And my mother I will kiss!"
"The closet's ahead!" He said as he sped.
And he stopped there to get some stuff.
Some soap, some shampoo and a towel or two.
But he knew that it wasn't enough.
Look though he might, to his horror and fright,
Not a single washcloth could he find.
Then panic set in 'cause the stink of his skin
Was driving him out of his mind.
He looked yet again but to his chagrin
The washcloth shelf was bare.
The washcloths had run off
For they would not wash
So filthy a boy on a dare
"Oh what will I do!" "Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!"
The boy cried as flies swarmed his head.
"I'd **** myself but I already smell"
"Far worse than anything dead!"
Then one washcloth came back
Holding it's nose and a sack
Of bath salts that smelled like dill.
It said to the boy "Go pickle yourself!"
"And give me a nausea pill!"
So the boy rejoiced and filled the tub
With water, hot as he could stand.
And using the bath salts, he jumped right in
And the pickling began.
He lathered the washcloth with water and soap
And scrubbed with all of his might.
Away he washed all of the filth
'Til none was left in sight.
He washed his hair and brushed his teeth
And dried and dressed himself well.
And the washcloth exclaimed as it hung on the tub
"Holy crap! that was pure hell!"
So the boy now clean ran to be seen
By his mother he loved so much.
And she gave him a kiss and said "This is pure bliss!"
"I can kiss you and keep down my lunch!"
The moral I'll tell you and true I will be
So no one will say that I lied.
Don't wait a whole month to take a bath
Or you washcloths may run and hide.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
The devil's speech say they:
Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry.
Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air
Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades
Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam.
That charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
In the coughing desert
Not a thing dares roam
Neither wind nor creature
And neither stick nor stone.
But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek -
The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying
"Tell me, thou innocent,
Why feel you special and best?
For when all is done I take you
And return you to my nest;
Your world is bright and happy
Full of high spirits and song,
Though soon you too shall step aboard
And join my faceless throng."
Hot saliva on the heaving engines:
Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched.
Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting
Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses
Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth!
From that charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
That dark train cries out and all around
A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog-
Bleak and yellow it obscures the land
Seeping out insidious in strange locales all:
The old lonely fisherman
Sleeping on his wharf,
The frustrated hawker's
Windblown barefaced booth,
Silent streets crying for attention,
Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye.
That solemn train cries out and all around
Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog
Calling all to upright attention and fear.
Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window
Slowly closing cold dread claws-
Naked numbness dumb as ice-
Cold dread claws upon thy waist.
And you,
You poor old thing,
Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones,
You never had any chance!
You were only human.
You were only human, you poor old thing.
Barreling on with brimstone slang:
Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub!
Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh
Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw
Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet
That charred old shell so terse,
Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse,
Is all that gives meaning to our every gain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
a magician never reveals their
tricks to the joker is what you’d
told you that sunday night last
september as you had sloppily
crashed into a river and made
both of our cold bones shiver.
we both knew this was not a
typical drive down the road
because you had broken the
moral code and would soon
be toad while i lay with still
bones and a frantic call home
on a stretcher in the back of
an ambulance with hands
holding my body together
as you asked the police to
give you a moment so you
could have a breather and
a smoke or two because
you knew you were through.
they asked if you wanted to
leave me alone and head
down to the police station
and you just shrugged like
this was not your creation
because your court costs
were more expensive than
the knowledge of my pain
and i wished I had caught
that last sunday night train
instead of drinking with you
in the rain and making fog
against the window pane.
i was told not to move as
i waited for the helicopter
and you were pushed up
against the side of a cop
car and cuffed with angry
resistant will and the tears
spilled down hard and fast
from your pretty little face
because for once i would
not save your ****** ***
and get you out of this gory
mess that had turned your
sunday best into a disgrace
and made my bones buckle
and cry out for some rest
for they had been pressed
and strained under the now
drowned window pane with
blood creating a vivid stain.
your head ducked down as
you were pushed into the back
of the car and you glanced up
to see my motionless mangled
body watching from afar.
how’s that for a date night?
you laughed as the tube
down my throat made me
cough and the police officer
gave you a stern look before
slamming the door on your
smirking face so hard that
the car shook like my body
did with hollow echoing sobs
that made my eyes run like the
river that had made both of us
shiver as you had claimed that
the joker would always deliver
even if the magician would not
reveal their spells for the joker
had his own secret way to hell.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Sometimes in April
When the rain pours
And makes mud of the earth.
I think of Brenda Fassie’s “Too Late For Mama”
Lingering on my sister’s vibrato
An attempt to forget that,
Once again,
A family member had lent us their back.
My three sisters and I huddled,
Under the night sky,
Singing.
A mild prayer to keep us from shivering.
A ‘let us find the mercy of a couch”
But it rained hard.
We used our limbs as umbrellas.
Laughed loud and sloppily
To hide our shame
Sometimes in April.
I think about the wet ground
How it felt against our feet.
How poverty turned into homeless.
Into needy.
Into “don’t cry, we’ll be okay soon”
Into my mother being a beggar
And us, just open mouths.
Wrestling with the pitiless relatives
Who call us out of our shared last names.
Sometimes
I think
Haven’t we lost enough
Haven’t we known an empty hand
Haven’t we despaired enough.
No shelter to speak of
Just a song to keep us warm
And the rain does not care. (Neither do the people)
It comes.
In April.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
My Muse is a fickle fair weathered breeze,
staying just long enough to rustle my leaves and abandoning me
burning in the passionate colors of Fall.
Empty, the leaves fall
deserted.
My muse resembles the elemental lightning
of a boiling summer night,
illuminating the sky for no longer than an instance.
all that was vivid and clear by his lantern spirit
now drips
sloppily in blacks and grays.
My Muse is a tentative, shy being
with the voice of a God.
Delicately he dances with my sleeping soul,
leading the steps like a puppeteer afraid of hurting his limp marionette.
Still and silent I feel the pull on my heartstrings,
my Muse gently testing the threshold of the human spirit.
I am aware of him
a warm hand closes over my heart,
as if reminding me that it's not a crime to be human.
My Muse is the love of my soul,
separate and opposite,
equal parts love and hate,
annihilating together in a firework display,
leaving me free.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
sometimes my anxieties are like intricately built sandcastles. i have been known to worry and fret over these sandcastles for hours, even days, at a time. i will collect millions of grains of sand and sloppily sculpt them. they are not usually beautiful or special or anything worth my time at all, but i continue build these castles. it’s like i have to. if i stop, what else is there anymore? what do i do? there is a sandcastle for all of my worries, all of the things that shiver beneath my chest for too long, anything that leaves my bones aching after all of the clocks plead midnight.
a year ago i was sitting on a sun-painted beach surrounded by two thousand sandcastles. the wind was beating the breath out of my lungs. the ocean was far off, so far i could hardly even see the dancing silver waters. i kept building them. i was tired and i was crying and building these hideous sandcastles of anxiety with my bare hands. people would pass me by, briefly, shaking their heads like i was something broken. i was miserable. i was always alone and i did nothing but build sandcastles. a year ago i was sad but no one knew why. a year ago i was sad but i didn’t know why.
but now i know you and the ocean is much closer, i can see it pushing back and forth all hours of the day and feel its song, because you are the ever-present waters that collapse my anxieties. i still build them often, but you continually take them away from me and they are forgotten. i do not know where you put them. i just know that every time i speak to you, you extend your long arms around them and they crumble. most of the time now it’s just me sitting on wet sand as the white-wash curves of your waves swallow every one up. i make you laugh and my anxieties sink. every new worry i have, your edges swim to the shore and carry it off. no matter how quick i try to build them, every time i blink they will be gone. i don’t know how you do it.
sometimes i think about joining you in the sea, but i’m scared. i don’t want to lose that part of myself. i’m afraid of what i won’t have anymore if i leave this fragile collection of crumbled sandcastles behind. i’ve fallen in love with the call of the sea and the storms that it brews, but i can’t abandon land just yet. your waves silently ask me all of the time but i can’t let go of this just yet.
i hope one day, when i’m ready, the ocean will gently carry me away, too.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
Today, I am among the half-dead again
Wandering the halls with a gaze that could disintegrate the sun
The world around me is painted in an elephant grey
But this safari feels empty and yet so congested
With a smile that’s been sloppily and gruelingly painted on,
I face the challenges of everyday life once more
Half of me is tuned in to the things around me,
Scribbling words and deciphering the text at a snail’s pace
But the other half is still dreaming,
Waging war against the strongest mages of our time
Or drowning among a school of clownfish
Either way I’m not here and I’m begging to be free
Today, I am among the half-dead again
I imagine that someday a dragon will take me away
This may simply be my dreaming side taking over again
But if I said it could burn away all my worries,
Wouldn’t you wish for that as well?
I would hop onto its scaly back and point towards the sky,
Chanting as if I had been rehearsing for this moment,
“Anywhere is fine, as long as it’s not here”
But until then, I am drenched in my own rain
And the smile has run off with it, off to somewhere far away
Today, I am among the half-dead again
With weights tightly chained to my fingers
I’m dragging my thoughts along with my spirit
I’m a little bit tired but maybe if I wait, tomorrow will be a much better day
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
I
Fanciful and then the first notice of
suspended mouth corners,
fleeing gravity with invisible strings,
sloppily synchronize in giggles.
II
A glance at the shore horizon,
widening into chasm,
Erebus leaking
ominously—
oh but the raft
is far too small!
oh and flimsy!
surely the shadows
will ravage
the branches
and pull this
neurotically
euphoric contraption
below.
III
glazed malfunction
blurred and hazed
for lack of clarity
billowing surges
mold as magnets inandout
and in andoutandinandout again
fades in before
melting again to
disjointed gestures
in a multicolored backdrop
IV
Skeletal architectures
return from a hysterical
awareness of ****** intricacy—
And discussion is,
of course,
forever precluded
for fear of relapse
and embarrassment.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
today, my English teacher explained that poetry is a way to express
internal feelings
externally
and the sadness I felt in my mind in my heart
could be spilled by accident
sloppily on paper
and still seen as a beautiful work of art
but the happiness you make me feel,
my mind cannot fathom words
to script carefully in ink
what you make me feel
these butterflies can't escape from my stomach and land on paper
the thought of loosing you
cannot rip my skin apart
to claw out of my body
and tear my words to shreds
please
don't turn whatever we have
into something I can write about
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
a warm glow shifts softly
in space & rhythm.
i pull the curtain aside & sit in the back--
a handful of seats, but only one
gets worn, the others
fool the mind into believing
imagination defies physics
to drink from the creative cauldron,
that ever-boiling vessel
churning out new
patterns & threads,
weaving fresh fibers between
spirits & minds.
the holographic hardware,
whirring too fast for ears.
our mind is the web & we spiders
spin the silk,
carefully or sloppily,
connecting the strands to catch
not flies but images,
sparks, bulbs & flashes.
often small, but once caught
emerge as a garden of gems
whose faces refract & reflect
until nearly all gems become one.
what's required is
a bright enough light
with fluid agility,
to illuminate & reflect
the whole nebula through
one, clean face--
perhaps the original gem itself;
for what would our mind be
without that raw crystal
forged in the stars?
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 6:10 PM UTC
I think that you lied.
I think I clearly cut out the glass for you,
The glass you so sloppily blew.
I think you told me that,
It's intricate contours were the works of your carving knife,
But I knew better,
I could see through your exo-skeleton.
I could see into your soul.
I could see that you're not who you look like.
I could see you're far from beautiful.
You pulled me into the closet,
You told me that you're simply a contradiction.
I told you,
Simply and contradiction is a contradiction on its own,
So you're a liar.
I fled,
And you said,
"Off with her head!"
And while my head rolled,
God has been told,
You were singing with your angel choir.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
You're on your way to where the job is at.
Wearing boots, coveralls, goves and a hat.
It's **** that floats in an unergroung vat.
You dig that up, but that isn't that.
You remove the old lid and there you find.
A smell that drives you out of your mind.
Digested food of every kind.
The sight of which makes you wish you were blind.
The special function of your work truck,
Is to siphon up all of that muck.
You start up the pump, and with any luck.
The machine will then sloppily ****
Slurping hungrily at the waste.
And hopefully doing it with all due haste.
Removing a greyish sort of paste.
Feces, that five years, has been encased .
Now with the job almost through.
You suction up the last of the poo.
Replacing the lid but as you do.
Some of the stuff splashes on you.
It gets all over your clothes and your hat.
And all over your face. What's up with that?
Now you are as filthy as an old, greasy rat.
That was chased into a sewer by an ill tempered cat.
So you wipe your face with a rag that you brought.
Just in case that you might get caught.
In the kind of mess that has just been wrought.
A precaution of which, you had thankfully thought.
As that nasty job is finally finished.
And your good cheer is also diminished.
You can take a shower and so be replenished.
To face another day that you will be punished.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
***Blinded with the horribly sweet feeling of violence
Brutality released with a mighty rage
Can't see, humanity feeling so alien and distant
Only sensing blood spilling on my flesh and
******** screams supercharged with terror***
***As the rightful inner self gains power
I start to awaken, eyes rolling forward, back into position***
*I drift back from spiritual chaos and into consciousness
Reality hits me with* the force of a train
Identity, mental stability, cognitive ability, all regained
First moment a last dose of relief
Second full of confusion
Third a living hell
Soft warm light fills the living room
Revealing white walls sloppily painted in red
A massive TV set slammed on its face at the ground
Broken glass, a pool of blood and a hand underneath
Dismembered corpses, broken furniture and bones lay around
A gap in the stone wall, a skinned half-eaten body lies outside with the rubble and dirt
Suddenly I realize my stomach is a little too full
The smell of stale blood, the foul stench of death
Drilling through my nose
The silence too loud for me to bear
My family rotting right in front of my eyes
I cringe in shock and disbelief
Totally clueless about the destruction surrounding me
I look down at my red and wet hands
A huge knife in one hand, a patch of skin in the other
The patch of skin looked familiar
Too familiar
I look at the broken ****** mirror above where my little sister lies dead
A red figure stares back at me with half a face
As I'm about to break into tears
I break into a splitting headache instead
A headache like no other
My nails becoming as sharp as the razors cutting up my brain
Nausea, sweat, pain, anxiety, all at once, amplified
**My own screams start to terrify me
Drowning in insanity, blindness, and evil
This is the end
Identity, mental stability, cognitive ability, all lost**
With no trace, vanished for good
***Unleashed from the human experience
I break out of the window, into the night
Cracks forming in the glass like the black roots of evil thriving through my being
Equipped with an unquenchable thirst for bloodshed
I need my fix
Immortal
Indestructible
Supernaturally powerful
Possessed
Running on all fours fast through the night
For the next ****
For mankind is my enemy now***
AND MY ENEMIES GET EXTERMINATED
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
fifty years later
you girls wear their old dresses
over sky
blue leggings
lace
and fabric that smells
of lost time
you found them
in stores
with high ceilings
and a sloppily simulated
rustic vibe
you love your
waists tastefully
cinched
and collar bones
concealed
you twirl before
the full length
mirrors and
wish oh how
you wish
you could
have been born
then instead of now
everything
was so much classier!
the women
were a different
kind of beautiful
women
who smoked
in their bathtubs
cardboard hairdos
unraveling
women
elbow deep in
baking
soda and dishsoap
soft secretive
smiles overtaking
their
faces
as they rattled
through the
medicine
cabinet
for a snack
(twice a day)
pregnant again
for
the fourth
time
yet
thin as a rail
somehow
ghosts
in their own
skin
silent but
deadly
crying manically
because of
the smoke
in their eyes
choking gently
on the powder
all over their tight
lovely complexions
dinner ready
at six
sharp as a rusty nail
fantasizing
about what it would be like
to fall in love
with another woman
scuffing their knees
and showing the raw
skin off to all
the young men
with sunlight left over
from childhood still
swimming in their
eyes
or walking home
in the rain
without an umbrella
and having that be ok
slapping their
own faces
at such trecherous
thoughts
obsessing
over how
their mothers did
it with
so much **** grace...
but yes
girls
their clothes
were simply
divine
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
I am starting to feel like I used to so many many moons ago.
a paralyzed tide,
weighted down by a mundane, loathsome orbit.
nothingness spilling sloppily out of orifices once made stronger by the planetary ring of hope.
my electrons are stale and immutable.
my id fatigued and lamenting.
I am sitting here rotting, eating phantoms in a desert.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
I'd rather be kissed hard than anything else.
Grabbed, pushed, pulled, tugged, bitten at.
Pain doesn't drive me insane, does it?
That sense of realization, that spark of hurt I feel,
I know I'm alive.
When I'm treated rough,
I know I'm alive.
I'm addicted to that feeling,
even if pain inflicted from others is what gets me there.
I would want him to push me against a wall,
hard enough that my skin digs into the harshness of it
as his mouth sloppily finds mine.
He can tear the air from my lungs with
every move he makes,
making it impossible for me
to catch my breath
like I'm trying to breath as
a fire's going on,
the flames licking at my skin
with a red hot tongue.
He can scratch at my skin,
pulling me closer,
as if being near will fill
the empty void,
the endless cloud of self hatred
buried deep in the lust
that we both feel.
He can bite and **** at
my neck, my mouth, my chest,
desperately trying to taste every bit
of me like a wolf on a hunt
He can toss me and pull me
and treat me like I'm nothing while
whispering "you're everything"
off his fire tongue as I'm just
savouring my addiction of feeling alive.
My addiction of pain.
My addiction of rough.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
I never knew or thought or felt like
my body was eternal like a cloud
I held my hand in my hand and waved sloppily
I am beating a drum hard as a heart
or like soft tissue perhaps that you
wrap around a vein or something
I am skinborn and boneborn and hairborn
Just water and air I guess
lined up so I can look at the
sky and wish it was below me
or within me
Kite-tongued or painted-lipped I thought
maybe my face my head was above my body
against ice or seafoam like a pulse
but I held onto my teeth and nose and eyes for so long
Dagger-ribbed or bullet-spined
moving on a field of nothing
like a field of something while
while my matter is so simple and nothing
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
everything is temporary
everything is temporary
everything is temporary
until it's permanent
the muscles in my right arm
break and rebuild
as i sloppily throw the mop
into the grey water
accented with glitter and swirling with paint
tiny finger and shoe prints
litter the linoleum
and i can't help but smile
fourteen hours later
i sleepily climb into my car
and i watch the sky as i drive, not the road
and the sun begins to lift it's eyelids
and it looks as if the sky is bleeding out
slowly, but surely
and as i drive on autopilot
i think to myself,
i can do this
i can do this
i can do this
until i can't
necessary means to an end
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 12:15 PM UTC
Darling, you’re fantastic.
I love you,
You know,
And I don’t say that lightly.
On the nights
(Like tonight)
Where sleep doesn’t find me,
I am consumed by you
In lieu of dreaming.
On the days
(Like today)
When I see you, hold you, kiss you,
I’m giddy, dizzy, happy,
And it’s all because of you.
My idiotic grin?
Entirely your fault,
You beautiful creature.
When I write poetry,
(Badly, sloppily,
Freely, openly)
It’s a window to a world
Populated by people
I’d mostly just like to forget.
(Or such is the norm,
But here, we find
The exception.)
But when I create,
When I sculpt, assemble, paint,
You are my muse,
My inspiration.
My cheesy, worn-out, affectionate clichés?
Those are your fault, too,
You marvelous ****
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 1:56 AM UTC
and somehow i'm still feeling raw
the wounds should have already been healed
still feeling the effects of your claw
and the layers of me are being peeled
you stripped me of feelings
sliced open old wounds
but on the outside
it looks just like a bruise
can we trust what we see?
is it all what it seems?
because you appeared friendly
but you can't see venom
you just feel it when it's injected
and you poisoned me
my mind is infected
sometimes silence
cuts deeper than words
and i would love to pretend
that it was truth i had heard
but a lie was all
that you sloppily slurred
it was what you deemed i deserved
apparently you didn't find in me what you wanted
but nevertheless with my feelings you taunted
i was just another game played
until you saw
your new found prey.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC