"slouches" poems
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.
A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, the formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
Our only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.
The end.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.
Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour
the voices repeat their crippling phrase
dancing the space
bound to their maze
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
The clock was set back,
and now night rots
away the afternoon.
Gray light spills,
slouches, sloughs
into my hair,
my hands, across
all these strangers.
Ovals of alcohol
keep the rain away.
My life is moving
stave by stave.
I used to go to school,
have a social circle,
idle through hobbies,
new days, new days.
What the hell happened?
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
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The results are in
I couldn't resist
I had to find my future
So I opened the box
and had a little fun
All I ever wanted
was the narwhal and the walrus
I dusted it off
the plastic green box
from my days of innocence
full of tiny noble animals
from every kingdom
So precious to me
I couldn't ever give it away
I dusted them off
and put them in couples
everything in pairs
everyone in pairs
Just like our world
And I wanted the walrus
but what choice did I have?
So I added some consolation prizes...
I'm bound to get one of them
The Walrus who slouches
The Ant who never listens
The Turtle who talks to himself
The Whale with the deformity
The Praying Mantis (too religious!)
The T-Rex with the family situation
Or at least the Shark who seems a little gay
I entered with seven ballots
So I paired the world off
the animal kingdom
inter species was the point
but it couldn't work
I got the seal
Probably beautiful
but not who I want
Dissapointment ruled me
And I had to know what happened
Maybe I just wanted power?
Well they all found other species
Probably forgot about me
even the Walrus
he got an old Elephant
The feeling was dangerous
nostalgic
but all I ever wanted
was the Walrus and the Narwhal
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
A shadow stumbles
through the chaos -
though nothing stands
between the moon,
the shattered icons
and blasted houses.
Conjured from
the exhaust of
ceaseless agitation,
the specter enshrouds
both the entranced
and the exalted.
This billowing
aberration -
the embodiment
of fears brewed
from loathing -
has no substance
or perception.
A ravenous void,
it slouches and bends
towards the
gilded Calvary
of conviction's end.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
The teapot whines.
It has done its job, water now
struggling to escape,
a few lucky molecules joining air-born brethren–
and now it begs for the release
of its agitated contents.
And I am thirsty.
The fire dies.
With a turn of my wrist, the burner
is granted repose,
the contented sigh of the *** speaking for the pair–
happy to be of use
but eager to relax.
And I am ready.
The teabag waits.
Its tail hanging free, it slouches
lazily against ceramic,
the bag of herbs finding home in a mug–
ready for the heat
and its life's fulfillment.
And I am pouring.
The water steeps.
As steam swirls the mug, herbs
release their subtlety,
earth and fruit and the lethargy of chamomile–
a bath of comfort,
the smell of memory.
And I am calmed.
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 10:51 AM UTC
Oh poor little elephant in the room.
No one knows him.
He cries repent.
But I still will not let him go.
I won't speak of him.
Not a word.
He hangs from my ear lobes.
Sits in my eyes.
Slouches my shoulders.
And sometimes makes me cry.
He is big...
But invisible to the eye.
He wants to leave,
I want him to.
But this chain is ample.
And clamped to me tight.
Where is the key?
Not in sight.
I know its here somewhere.
Or maybe hours away.
Poor little elephant in the room.
He needs to be free.
He needs to be with his momma.
Which unfortunately is me.
I have created this elephant.
This elephant of distrust.
Its no ones fault but my own.
But this I feel is unjust.
Sep 13, 2010
Sep 13, 2010 at 2:43 PM UTC
There was a feeling that found me
in the midst of focus fading
a shimmering within the sun rays
caressing then worn-out skin
something of acceptance
similar to fulfillment
resembling a happiness &
transcending physicality
companionship in the lack of it
whole souls acknowledging
sorrows, the ebb and flow
of the highs and lows
there was for a moment a stillness
a lack of all movement that
cradled the imagery of
static serenity before me
and as they inevitably faded
there was some comfort in knowing
a part of me forever resides
in the clasp of such experience
A loneliness sought me out again
drunken stupor with tongue of silk
coerced me willfully along
one very treacherous road
tender hand willingly reached
for one poor in spirit
the shackles of melancholy breached-
shattered- from the force of soft caress
in spite of the distance that loomed
there was closeness that bloomed
under the silver moonlight
audible in approving sighs
coalescence of energy, vibrant
colors spreading outward from
a heart and mind once so sure
that they'll only ever see grey
time within a memory
crystallized
and a spark to the kindling
within cold eyes
new warmth circulating
soon to create
a fire to cleanse
frostbitten exterior
but the forces of
nature will *****
out ambitious
flame impartially
and the feeling of fire
fades away with
the smoke, the memory
already one with the weather
&
Now what finds me is the storm
in the rain slouches
the silhouette
of a comfort so
soon now forgotten
the wind howls a name familiar
it carries with it the scent of a nightmare
sensation dances with the
the sting of near frozen air
I find a feeling not so foreign now
dragging me farther
out into
the wilderness
processing humbling
surroundings
i'm now left in
solitary wonder
where have I wandered?
how will I weather impending storm?
if I am long lost in unforgiving cold
will it then
be too late
when warmth finds me once more?
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
IF we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over in the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
your sliding figure eights,
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
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"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
- W. B. Yeats: The Second Coming
Dachshund
Bred to burrow after badgers,
what's he doing here?
Terrorizing the underwear
behind my couch.
Is he a true hund,
or just a pan-fried sausage
with a Bluto chest?
I wonder what they called him
back then, in the Black Forest,
when dogs were dogs.
Tracker? Hunter?
Try: Baron Von Putt-Putt Tootsie Roll.
I'm Scot myself.
My people once sacked York.
No, this isn't York.
It's Plano, Texas.
Don't think a Dachshund and a Scot
can't sack Dallas from here.
Until then, we play our little game:
What rough ****** slouches toward my underwear?
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
Evelina’s fence of lichened cedar
slouches at the wetland border
her willows wildly weep
on silken cattail shoulders
the neighbors say she’s crazy
snidely call her Javelina
she's sane as any one of them
this brilliant winter morning
Evelina speaks of weather and dogs
hers, a Chihuahua named Fawn
mine, a Frenchie named Sparky
the weather, typically Northwest
in parting, sculpted driftwood
spiraling tornadic rings gifted
between palms roughly
worn by time and sea
Evelina’s yard is thick with trees
the neighbors want cut down
for now, she’s doing all she can
just holding swampy ground
each morning wakes triumphant
to beachcomb on the shore
pockets weighed with treasure
this moment, nothing more
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 9:58 AM UTC
Advanced in years, advanced in life
There slouches our grandmother in strife.
Winter has set in, no time to laugh
For our grandmother is knitting a scarf.
Behold the nature devoid Earth,
As the grandmother looks through the window.
Everyone step outdoors with a dust mask
For the air so polluted never was
And breathing shall cause dreadful malady.
Every time a man digs the soil
Only plastics found amid the great toil!
Drinking water has been rationalized
Only a liter for a huge family.
And as our granny knits the scarf
She gives up water with a guilty laugh.
Her grandson returns home with a thud
Covered with sand and drenched with mud
But no water to take bath
So he holds himself in wrath.
Grennary pictures he finds
Only in textbook binds.
Grandma is beware of all these
And takes her mind to the trees.
There is only one tree in India
That is the great Banyan tree
And it is among the 7 wonders of the world.
It hardly rains once a year
So everyone gets a holiday
To see in front the nature appear.
Grandma with agony and despair
Explains her children how beautiful
Earth was, when nature was there.
She wrote articles for magazines
Describing the birds chirping in peace
And the smell of the tranquil breeze.
Grandma catches sight of another incident:
Only one rose left in the Ooty rose garden
And before grandma could give a pardon
In Auction was it sold to the highest bidder!!!
Never a rose, was seen then.
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.
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But don't worry, we are not in that age now
And never we shall get that blow.
But our future will, the future generation will
Undergo all these torments calling us evil.
We now see children playing around the trees
We now see animals in deciduous forests
We now enjoy rain and greenery.
But we will be a nemesis for the future.
Let the future not see greenery in books
But in reality, in real life let them see brooks.
We humans seem to be selfish, for I define:
“Only after the last tree has fallen
Only after the last river has been poisoned
Only after the last fish has been caught
Only then will we realize that MONEY cannot be eaten.”
Perhaps our world has simply been hijacked
if man is to survive we need to act.
So, let's act and save our planet "EARTH"
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.
The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely
in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in organ-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.
Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.
In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
a raw beast slouches towards my native soil
the cradle holding our innocence rocks wrathfully
back and forth in the ruthless wind
the windows are shut the door locked
and still I hear the helpless cries
of whole communities collapsing
and crumbling because there is no center remaining
no mental balance left to connect the old
with the new and one day when the beast arrives
we will stare at each other with bloodshot eyes
and muse
wir haben das nicht gewusst
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:48 PM UTC
Bovine like he sits
maybe he has to ****
the only reason i can think of
that would warrant the stupid look on his face
speaking with urgency
and an andalucian lisp
he slouches in his chair to lessen his discomfort
And the large african queen'the proud mother gorilla
who shows up late everyday
then doesn't speak spanish
at all
es interesante
cow-boy now gets up
scampering out of class
relief in sight
past the starry eyed portraiture
of the girl reminiscent of the head of a young woman with tussled hair
carrying her emotion in her eyes
or maybe she's just ******
a morning bowl was nice today
the leaves almost at their peak
in terms of chlorophyllic changes at least
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
I am the emptiness that exists in the kitchen
at such hours, late and lonely.
I can operate only in this space,
at night when the answers become irrelevant
and the present tense becomes the past.
I rely on the sporadic sounds of movement of traffic below the window.
I am the scratchy sound of death cab
on the Buick’s aged speakers.
I claw at the insides of the aluminum
and seep out through cracked windows.
I shore myself against a distant past
despite better judgment.
I am born of the vivid summer heat.
I ride the train to the loop
and back out to the city’s extremities,
like blood through a body.
I sweat under layers of wool humidity.
I am the concrete paving the boundless suburban streets.
I exhale tar and forest
as the rain begins to fall, long after dark,
cooling the still-hot surface.
I crave the tires and feet that brace themselves against me.
I am the slow moving clouds at dusk, the color of tea.
I ignite as the sun slouches toward the horizon.
I consume the jets that depart from O’ Hare in every direction.
I am familiar laughter, striking ears in palpable waves.
I move most freely though vicious August heat,
But even in such passive chilled air, I proceed.
I careen toward what has been named peace,
though it’s been forgotten over the years.
I have fled the immortal city for one more ageless.
I crave the smell of the death of summer.
I pass into a state of suspension
like the bodies that surround me, never born but built.
I trace the veins and find no flesh,
but only bones beneath them.
I stretch willing to bridge the gaps that exist.
I am the tangled freeways moving among one another
in the heart of a city accused of being heartless.
I am guiltless in the face of isolation.
I hold blood hostage on a daily basis.
I am lethargic, gold-soaked afternoons
Bearing such spacious skies.
I lie beneath gilded light
like the lazy palm lined streets.
I am the trembling airwaves,
And I disarm the distance itself.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:10 PM UTC
Ihinabi ko sa bukana ng payong ang ulan.
This is to believe that sheltering may not always be, or simply perhaps an undertaking of weakness. A radical strangeness aspires to be bold. I may not be able to transcend its nakedness.
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This is to deny the common verity that in the communal of water, shade fails a transliteration. We cannot be forever in hiding. Our smallness reveals our flowers. Our unmentioned stirrings. (A spire of technicolor through the lens of apertures. It starts to rain in Pasay.)
.
I see children swift-bodied in the streets. I hear the sublime song of a defunct tractor. Once in its vitality, Earth was its derelict. How did it come to be that when I peer into the openness, light slouches into form, conjuring an image: your face, hiding amongst the crowd?
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This is to recognize the potential of dwindles. Its vertigo that it tries to protect. Its height that it tries to conquer. Its fall that it tries to eschew. What if bones are just homes to tiny little currents and that the way our body assumes the stance of jackknife, simply a foreboding?
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Itinabi ko sa sukal ng araw ang payong.
This is to perceive that all light lifts away from the dark, my heart always falling into its hands. Morning opens your face like delicate streets, pulverizing fog into chamomile. Silence is endemic. *Makati *buoys overseer reconnaissance of obvious beatings. Revealing a long line of ligatures -- umbilicus of wires. Serenades of futility. Our useless meanderings.
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The depth of Sunlight finally turns primeval stone. That is our defeat -- all our darkness put to trial. I am tense with the finality: she will become parasol and I, the weather past moonlight waxing.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
Sharp golden eyes
Peer from the trees
Soft rhythmic purr
Summons me
Interest peeked
A calling
Of hope
Hello?
Don't leave
I will walk among you
Sisters
I will travel the soil path
Up the hills
Past the clearing
To the cave
That seems to ward away
All the evil
Her long body
Slouches into the mouth
Golden eyes
Lighting the way
My bare feet
Against the cold stone
I grip my arms
Where do you take me
Madre De Los Gatos?
Where do you lead
Beautiful Pantera
I see
You show me my path
I will walk straight
Among you my sister
Thank you
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
The Beatnik Café’
Cigarettes, coffee, a ****** beret
Blue smoke and Blue Mountain, blue verse, blue rhyme --
O Come to the side-street beatnik café;
Here present-tense yourself; caffeine the time
Here order your Bacon very well Donne
And jam your java with croissants and Keats
Orate from Spenser; groove with Tennyson
Tap out a line of Seafarer-four beats
Tap out a manifesto; everyone does
Pulp-print Red rags yelp “Revolution Now!”
The typewriter is holy, and Up the Fuzz!
Bongo that Kerouac, and Howl, but how?
Bongo that beat, oh, yeah, it’s crazzzzy, man
Sheaffer that rhythm, cat; Parker that line
Ferlinghetti your truth to a yellow pad
Sharpen your verbs to a rebel design
Sharpen your verbs from a bottle of ink
Light up a Camel; blow intellectual smoke
Teach the ****** bourgeois how they should think
Grey-suited capitalists – what a joke!
L’Envoi – Time Slouches On
Tee-shirted capitalists joke in Mandarin
The latest chained coffee’s inside the mall
English and Apples are original sin
On glowing screens where the pale pixels crawl
And no one crawls through rhythm, rhyme, or verse,
Or bongos out an existential cry
For poetry is dead; the twitters terse
Reduce the ancient loves to I, me, my.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
Eyes narrow
Mind rushes
Mouth spits hateful words
Head drops
Eyes waters
Feet quicken
Tears fly
Hand raise
Words whispered
Finger squeezes
Bullet flies
Blood splatters
Eyes darken
Body slouches and falls
Blood pools around head
Everything blackens
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
I am looking for a place to return to.
I have no strength.
I find myself exposed, one skewed shadow
pulling roots beneath the sun.
Overnight I became wary of everything.
I remark at my own existence. That I could walk away from it.
As all colours part from me.
I open my mouth. I am full of willows and moth wings.
I look for words. I find the old ones and dig up
empty rooms.
I have become so simple.
My anger slouches in the corner like a rook. Shuffling, always shuffling.
But he will not speak to me.
This is a living thing.
The paradox is a minor landscape.
No time believes in me.
I will say it again.
I woke this morning and found myself missing.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
It was only partly cloudy when we showed up to the dance.
Polished, striding slick in all our style.
Lucky buckeyes stashed in pockets,
rabbits' feet clutched in our hands
we marched up to that fancy fence
and asked,
"When does the fun begin?"
It had only started raining when our escort let us past
the gate and led us on toward the door.
But I tripped on my own shoelace,
fell behind and watched you pass.
Your smile turned to sour salt
and ash.
You looked back and you laughed.
Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
'Cuz the rain is getting thick
now
and this scene is getting sick.
Wretch me up.
Soak me down right to the quick.
Thought somehow it could be saved.
Preserved or salvaged from decay.
Decidedly unjustified to chance.
But I bought these fancy shoes
with my last dime, got all these moves.
So waltz me off, stage right, with all the
other trash.
The door was swinging inward, blocking your form from my view,
closing to a slant of yellow light.
Windows brightened golden inside;
out here ink night, black and blue.
I saw you next through window panes
as you
cavorted with the lords.
The rainwater's slashing downward, raging cold against this face.
Curse escapes through blunted, yellow teeth.
Among finery you are dancing.
Here, I shiver in drenched rags.
luck charms fell from fingers to
the dregs.
When does the fun begin?
Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
'Cuz the rain is getting thick
now
and this scene is getting sick.
Wretch me up.
Soak me down right to the quick.
We scrawled out this stupid story
'til the pens fell from our hands--
'til exclamation points were
dented,
bent and
rent;
until we'd asked,
"What's the final tally, mate?"
Now,
this bad and greasy hair
is hanging low over this face.
This ****** used up body droops
and slouches toward its age...
And the rain is like no bitter ex's invectives
ever taste.
What's the final tally, mate?
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
An announcement, dear spoons, it has come to my attention,
That knives are in fact the superior invention,
They cut and they dice, and they bring us sliced bread,
While for spoons, I'm afraid there's not much to be said,
They're good for the stirring and sipping of soup,
They can help you eat anything; well, as long as its goop,
They can't even manage to show a proper reflection,
Try gazing at one, it upends your direction,
Oh spoons, you buffoons, you round-bellied fools,
Try slicing, not scooping, you inelegant tools,
Knives dress to **** while you spoons are such slouches,
And knives are quite charming; you lot are all grouches,
It's clear that knives are the superior race,
They'll put you dumb spoons back into your place,
At the bottom of the drawer, way down with the forks,
Alongside the can opener, and a screwer of corks,
You're the **** of the table, I despise your skullduggery,
That's why I declare knives the finest of cutlery.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
-Year fifteen.
*Normal girl, tall and slender. Bright eyes and developing body.
But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by something else. Beautiful bones,
Long, pink nails and the skin on her palm smoother than silk.
The veins show a dull peppermint on her snowy skin.
Her thin wrist and delicate movements.
She cracks her knuckles so her sharp joints will show more.*
-Year twenty three.
*The life she lived previous was pressured by the pollution in the air. ****
Drugs, and alcohol. She slouches and shivers on a warm summer day,
Huddled in a corner of her house.
Her hands show no more snow. The veins seem shriveled.
Her joints were swollen and unmovable.
Her palms are coarse from rubbing them together and her nails...
Oh, her nails were ****** and torn off. She clawed too much at her neck
As she was held down and suffocated.*
-Year twenty four.
*"I am sorry." The note read.
It was a deformed hand. Bite marks on her fingertips, shriveled skin with blotches and sores.
The veins drawn over in pink scars from jagged blades and old attempts.
It was a miracle she could write at all.
She now lays in an open casket. Eyes stare at her contrasted beauty.
Her childhood friend had always loved her hands. He reconstructed them.
A shriveled old body, only twenty four years old, but seemingly ancient.
But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by someone who truly loved her.
Beautiful bones,
Long and pink plastic nails. The skin on her palm made of silk.
The veins are drawn with a dull peppermint pastel on her falsely snowy skin.
He cracked her fingers so her prosthetic joints will move less.*
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC