"snooping" poems
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
5.1k
Friday is pizza night, usually but today is my birthday,
I told my Dad, I asked, “Dad, can I have a skateboard?”
That was couple of days ago, but its Saturday.
I want the kind with big wheels; the kind the big boys ride own the hill on, the big hill.
I can’t do any tricks.
I want it to be blue and red, but mostly blue, my favorite color,
I hope Mom and Dad wake up soon so I can get out of bed and be my birthday
I will be eleven
I think I saw my present in the closet last night,
Not that I was snooping, I don’t, I just think I saw it.
When I get up it will be my birthday and I will be eleven and Dad can make pancakes for breakfast and I can get my present, and later on tonight is pizza and hopefully he makes bacon too and I am going to ask for bacon for my pizza tonight.
It’s later on the same day, it’s a sunny day and still it’s my birthday
and my friend and me, I mean I, we are at the top of a hill the big boys ride down on their boards, and since it’s my birthday and my board I get to go first,
but I’m not going yet because I will in a second.
Mom gave me a helmet so I have that on too, it’s blue too, so I like it
But the board is more red than blue, but it’s okay because the wheels are blue and
You see the wheels all the time but I’m going down the hill on my board now.
It going fast and I am smiling and yelling and my friend is waving back at me,
It’s a long hill down and the bottom turns a little but I didn’t make it to the bottom,
My board slipped and my face, my cheek and forehead under where the helmet was,
Slid on the pavement,
I cried home and my neighbor doctor called me a road pizza.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
The more we know, the less we say
All the spoken words have its consequences
The more is told in silences
The words omitted but heard clearly
What we listen, the words crafted carefully
They deceive the ears that surrounds
Every other agenda works on
What favours whose manipulation
The smile contains no smile
The efforts put to take another mile
Snooping and buttering on sides
Friends and foe, no one decides
Act so nice, what is inside
no one knows till the very end
Dress so good, please all eyes
Give help when it is noticed
Out of sight then eyes vanished
Deceptive tricks up the sleeve
It matters not whom we believe
All playing game with roll of dice
Keeping friends close, enemies closer.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 3:38 AM UTC
When she says she hears voices rattling and battling in the deepest recesses of her mind, then it's time to beware, take care, and make choices saddling you and leave her behind.
Shes a case study of its kind. That even Freud would throw up his hands, make a grand stand in his frustrations and demand a vacation to unwind.
She's all that and more.
She'll wrap a man around her fingers make him putty in her hands,
leave him babbling in his mirror
trying so much to understand.
He should feel something, but just can't comprehend,
left a mute, numb, mumbling...
carcass, of a man.
She's like an itch that becomes a
scratch that's becomes a pestering,
festering **** till you look down
horror bound as the ****** swollen
thing has taken on a life of its own...
then it starts maxing out your cards,
throwing your clothes out on the yard,
yelling hard. Snooping on your phone. Won't go home. Won't leave you alone.
Is it a wound or a woman or a woman or a wound or both simultaneously, concurrently? Yes and no.
Oh the trials and tribulations I've known!
You can really pick em.
Daddy used to say, in his haphazard way, and really lay it on me in the harshest of phrases, meant to dazzle and daze me, rile and faze me, knock me a kilter off my normal day.
Son, you stimulate and exhilarate the
spirit of an untamed, pained, wild
child woman and it'll be the same, and here this,
as an insane drain on the brain most personally and certainly and most notably and you can quote me. It'll leave you feeling like the beach storming at Normandy.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 5:38 AM UTC
Marching, hopping, running, waddling
down the street, people with working feet
oblivious to the stares of the woman
in a chair.
Why would they see her?
She's not even their height!
They are just people plodding and
plotting, lives rotting slowly away.
But, back to the woman in the chair
Snooping on the crowd
Watching the mothers tug at toddlers reins.
Rowing teens shouting "bruv" a lot!
She's mocking the crowd in her own way
She has become them, just invisible.
She likes it like that, knowing of you
Yet them not knowing of her.
Her awareness is acute, sees the businessman
in his suit. The homeless man in his home
called box, the elderly matrons
moaning about bingo.
The drunk with his bottle clutched as tight
as the baby clutches her bear.
The smokers all congregated at the altar of tar
The shopkeeper eyeing the kids, missing the thief
The security guard, guarding the pretty
Little things, no, not the jewellery the
teenage girls! Oh, his eyes are popping!
His legs are twitching. His fingers itching to touch!
Along with the sights are the sounds,
shouting, laughing, heckling and coughing
Smell,also plays a part in people watching
fast food, sweat, the great unwashed.
All plodding along, flocking like birds
clogging the street, swapping gossip,
unaware as always of the
young woman in a wheelchair.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
Took 287 South
to a Borders
Goin Outta
Biz Sale.
Books may be
anachronisms,
relics from
yesterdays
analog age,
but literacy's
bankruptcy
does have
advantages.
Take an
additional
30% off on
any orphans
pleading
release from
the discount
racks.
Snooping down
the literature isle
Samuel Beckett's
somber face
arrested my
roving
eyeballs.
A stern stare
printed across
5 spines of
his shrink
wrapped
oeuvre
commanded
my arm to rise
to liberate the
face from the
dismal shelf.
In mid flight
my reach
was hijacked
by a Kris
Kringley red
snow flaked
trim tome
standing
open face
next to
earnest
Beckett.
It was "The
Christmas
Sweater"
by NYT
Best Selling
Author, Glenn
Beck.
Clasping at Beck's
book, it inflicted
a nasty paper cut
to my ring finger.
My mind recoiled,
thinking, "serves
you right. Like
Martha, I shoulda
chosen the better
thing."
I'll never
make that mistake
again.
Borders Books
Riverdale
2/20/11
jbm
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
Below, blades are not
safe from snooping golden glares.
And at night, the moon.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC
In an ocean of night, dreaming of a closed dining space / We were snooping in on a harsh conversation of strangers that we knew / Towards dawn you spoke / as real in the dream as an apparition in the real / of Father and Mother / of them cruising off on a road trip / You faltered at a word I recollect but won't spell / It absorbed into whale song ticking to a time piece / itching to signal morning / and I could feel the depth of many fathoms floating over a waking to Spring / like being pressed against a cherry blossom trunk / in a tug of war, a push and pull / Let's go Jungian on this, he is much more pleasant / I did see a bumble bee yesterday, not a golden scarab, although that could have been a circadian premonition / and I woke up to a shower of blossoms //
May 11, 2021
May 11, 2021 at 8:44 AM UTC
They like it.
When it's positive.
They can't stand it.
When it's negative.
It's fame.
Oh, the publicity game they play.
Receiving many, many free type things.
Smiling and attending many events.
Least when they first starting out.
As the fame continue to grow.
Soon, within time they become inclusive.
As, if fans are too good to know.
This I don't sign autographs.
I guess they under the impression.
They made themselves.
It's the fame that has them thinking this way.
Scandals, affairs and the snooping of the press.
Now have them pretending to be someone else.
They might be Sophia Sunshine or River Jones.
Just to keep the scandals , from being known.
Spokes people speaking.
And trying their best to spin a lie.
Should have advised their client to be truthful up front.
The very first time.
Rehab.
Rehab on drugs legal and illegal too.
We all know of some famous person going through this.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:19 AM UTC
Dear Mom,
I know I shouldn’t have been
snooping, but when looking
for some socks on a day when I was
still living with you and had neglected
to do my laundry, meticulously paper clipped
in your drawer, I found a 26-page document
that made my insides curl
when I saw the name of Dad’s mistress
printed blatantly on the front cover.
Yes, I looked through it
(and I know I shouldn’t have) and I don’t know
what made me more disturbed—the fact
that you took the time, ink and paper
to look up the woman who
destroyed your marriage
on public records,
and neatly annotated the highlights
of her messy divorce
prior to meeting Dad—or that this
26-page monstrosity sat innocently beside
his old Valentine’s Day cards,
still painstakingly arranged by year, mixed in
with your daughters’ decade-old crayon drawings
captioned by the loopy letters of a child’s handwriting
next to little plastic baggies with worn edges
containing baby teeth,
the roots yellowed by age and decay.
You never let anything go, do you?
You hold time captive by the wrists
until the soft skin bruises, and even when
it finally jerks itself away, you still manage
to sweep up every speck of dust
its presence
left behind, and store it
perfectly labeled in your archives
like some neurotic historian,
where you think your daughter, who was
only looking for a pair of socks,
would never just happen to stumble upon
this hoarded material record
of every ******* thing
that torments you.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 11:25 AM UTC
(Dear Friends, reacting to the latest TV Report about China’s claim
of the Himalayan Range this verse got composed. Hope you like it.)
CHINA’S VAULTING HIMALAYAN AMBITION !
By Raj Nandy
From Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’: “vaulting ambition,
which o'erleaps itself and falls on the other.”
……………………………………………………………………….
China, having infected the entire world by unleashing
the deadly Corona virus,
Have now started to measure the height of the mighty
Himalayas!
Having begun a dispute with Nepal, her peaceful
southern neighbor,
By trying to claim that entire Himalayan range as
part of China!
Ignorant about Macbeth’s ‘vaulting ambition’, -
which led to his downfall and destruction!
In the Tibetan portion of this mountain range,
An unmanned radar device was earlier set up by
China for air surveillance.
Now under the pretext of monitoring air traffic
over Tibet,
Two more radars devices are being set up on the
Himalayas once again,
Which will also act as snooping devices upon her
peaceful southern neighbors!
China already has her jaundiced eye upon India’s
Arunachal Pradesh,
Not forgetting her earlier illegal occupation of India’s
Aksai-Chin region.
She also has full co-operation from her ‘boot-licking
friend’ present across India’s western borders.
Unfortunately, only Historians remember the rise
and fall of ambitious Empires.
China too shall one day realize her Himalayan
Blunder!
-Raj Nandy, New Delhi; 16 May 2020
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 7:54 AM UTC
Here's another story that I just made up
That just can't wait to be told
About a weary prospector, down on his luck
That gave his life for his gold
He was way up yonder in the hills, they say
Just him and his scrappy old mule
That poor old mule didn't have no teeth
So he'd sit around the camp and drool
Now that prospector, who we'll call Jake
Was as secret as he could be
He didn't like people snooping around
So he wasn't much for company
See, Jake had been on that mountain
For nigh on twenty years
But he never did hit the mother load
With all his sweat and tears
Then, one day he decided to go fishing
A fish pulled him right in the river
He tried to hang on with all of his might
It's hard to do when you shiver
Jake looked up and was headed toward the falls
So he decided he'd better let go
When he dropped that line, he sunk like a rock
And started thrashing to and fro
Now, Jake was a real good swimmer
He was on the prospector's Olympic team
But, everytime his head went under
All he could do was scream
Now Jake had prospected his whole life
But now, he was getting pretty old
He didn't know the reason he was drowning
But his pockets were full of gold
When he figured it out, he had gold fever
And he refused to let it go
All poor old Jake could think about
Was he finally hit the mother load
See, when that old fish had ****** him in
He was dragging him on the bottom
There was gold just laying everywhere
And that's where his pockets got 'em
Poor old Jake drowned that day
Richest man in the world, I think
His old mule was standing on the bank
Drooling, as he watched him sink
They fished his body out of that river
The next morning before dawn
But they found both pockets as empty as could be
It was stolen by a leprechaun
Well, I guess it's time for me to go
I can see as I look at my clocks
But if you really wanna protect your prospector's gold
Then let me suggest Fort Knox
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 11:59 AM UTC
Hello, Hello Poetry!
My name is ORLA, as you can see:
There's my little name, up there.
It's funny, see, 'cause I don't care
If my poems stink or ****
As much as does my ****** luck,
Because you'd never tell me true,
You'll trend my poems, like you do,
And make pretend it's a big deal
When - Hello Poetry, get real -
I don't deserve this great fanfare,
Me or my little name up there,
Which isn't actually my name.
I go by ORLA just the same
Because I pour my heart out here,
And don't want snooping friends to hear
How much my heart is hurt by HIM
Or how I can't stand HER or THEM . . .
I actually hate ME, to boot!
You see? Now, if I gave a hoot
About what anybody thought,
What they believed, or what they bought,
Do you think I'd let this poem get
This long and tiresome? You can bet,
I wouldn't. I'd have never written
Something when I was this smitten
With fatigue, grief, guilt, depression -
But I must end this griping session:
Goodbye, Hello Poetry!
My name is ORLA - This is me.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
I've seen pictures of your old girlfriend
on the laptop you let me borrow, I was
snooping, looking for something to accuse
you of. You told me they had all been deleted
(I hadn't asked) you told me everything
was gone.
I've read messages, happy, hinted, flirtatious
coy poetry played between two parts which
haven't been officially scripted.
"It's weird between us now, isn't it?"
berated friendship, bartered love offered
in the gaps which remain unspoken
yet.
He does not speak of her
anymore. I have not asked.
Was it, unsolicited? Or does she tickle
your decadent fancy; you do the honourable
thing now and flirt with her
behind her fiances back.
Each trial has been blond and I fail
at not hating every single golden glinted thief
who stole something before it was even mine
to take.
You rise and I darken; I smile sticking needles
in your misadvised tongue. Still, these words burn
sweeter than those in my head.
Something whispers about that girl
who just walked past. Inside my crypt
things do not look good for me.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Lately I've been wondering
If the truth is really worth it
If my curiosity really paid off
Was it better to be innocent
Or to be informed?
But I've realized something:
No matter what I find out
Wether knowing was really worth it in the end
I still try to find out
Even knowing
That my curiosity has revealed
Things I didn't always like
I still find myself
Snooping and digging around
Again and again
Success or failure
Answer or only uncertainty
I keep finding myself trying again
Because my curiosity
Is instinctual
And for better or worse
I can only be
A curious little cat
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
people snooping around,
won't stop until bombs hit the ground,
always in someone's business,
I just hope they will keep their distance
I am tired of the drama,
they will meet my friend karma,
taking their anger out on my friend,
soon it will meet its end
leave them alone,
I can handle this on my own,
step up to the plate,
and say what you want to say before it is too late.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
We climb the ropes and ladders to success,
Jumping from rung to rung,
assuring our social status.
But the wood is slick and so often we fall.
The bars drop and
we are caught by material things.
We are trapped,
restrained from our normal snooping.
The community drives the wedge home,
and individuals are born.
Next envy sprouts and
slowly twists up the body.
We are left boxed in,
restricted,
yet seemingly
empty and
unfulfilled.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
You started as a girl
With wavy blonde hair, worn long (for religion)
And sea green eyes.
You always wore a skirt (also the religion)
And hated it, railed against it every day.
That girl didn't last long,
The quiet girl who wanted out.
You were still a girl after
With short blond hair and green eyes,
But now the skirts were gone
And so was the quiet.
You began to rebel,
But only in small ways.
Hair
And skirts
And secrets never told, except to me.
This girl became a leader,
Strong and proud, MY leader.
Next you were dangerous.
Hiding yourself with
Cuts and the cuts with
Long sleeves and harsh words.
I tried to help, hide, anything at all
But it was hard,
With parents snooping,
Checking my email,
They discovered
The cutting and
Everything else.
I was ordered to talk to you and
In doing so,
Smashed your trust in me.
You never forgave me for that,
The dangerous girl I knew.
Next you were hard and sharp
With dyed hair and
A slash for a smile,
And new-minted bisexuality.
I tried so hard to balance
On the edge of your affection
And my confusion,
To find a way to be "normal".
But why try?
Normal doesn't exist.
I couldn't do it, so I
Gave up and
Flirted back
At, you, the girl I loved.
Now you're a boy
And I worry for you.
Your mother won't speak to you
And your father ignores you
And I had to move
And there are too many things I worry about.
You can take care of yourself.
I know that much to be true.
After all, you cared for me
When I was younger,
And for that I thank you,
The boy you've now become.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
They asked us to write a poem
in class
I thought about my B2 yellow pencil
and the way it used to
move easily
It was like if my words
would flow submerged in a labyrinth
and come up to breathe now and then
to show off in front of my face
that I would never place them in paper again
I knew I had to find another source of thoughts
and I asked
I was told that they'd seen my poem
hidden in dead end streets and alleys
where most of the best stories
go to die
they told me that Vincent Van Gogh
used the street as his canvas
and that Nicholas Copernicus found his passion
within the streets of a starry sky
I found my poem
with a case of severe amnesia
lost in an alley
snooping between the leftovers
of the things that he once saw me living
He said he got lost
a few months ago
when he started to feel unwelcomed
around me
I convinced him to go back home
and fed him
and asked him to return to my hands
or at least
to let me place him in paper
But he decided to leave
he grew arms and legs
and kicked down my door
and he was gone again
I knew there that everything that comes back
never does it not even as remotely
as how it was
and I'm here thinking
why did he leave again?
I think he found his color and shape
in the streets
far
too faraway
from me
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
I dragged it in
Made it my business
Stuck my hand in a hole in the ground
With my fist
Grabbed a wasp's nest
Even this I felt
Was a sacrifice worth making
I had no business there
Or did I?
Am I not the one responsible?
For this incredible talent
For this broken shell
This anvil I've forged my will upon
Appreciated, rejected, denied, rightfully placed in the trash bin
I made the choice to peer
Into dark places I once shed light into
Before hated age extinguished
No longer needed
Less still wanted
But there I am
The pain in my right hand is excruciating
What power you possess
To strike back
Seemingly glad to inherit
The misery I have nurtured (like a fool)
This perverse love of darkness
But I swear
I risked dipping into this Pandora's Box
For one reason
One reason alone
Because I love you with all that I Am
I cannot bear to tolerate my reflection
In your life
Because my soul longs to know you
As I once knew you
As I can never know you again
Because my instinct is to protect
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 3:53 PM UTC
Milka waited by the gate
of the farmhouse
for him to arrive
her brothers waited also
for he was their friend first
even if she had
drawn in him
with her emotional tide
I showed him how
to drive a car
one said
and I showed him
how to ride a motorcycle
said the other
in a field
Milka said
just in a ******
farm field
they sniggered
what have you shown him?
the oldest brother asked
yes what fine skills
have you taught him?
the other said laughing
wouldn't you like to know
she said stormily
folding her arms
and avoiding their stares
they guffawed
in the background
then proceeded
to practice their judo
until he arrived
she turned
and glimpsed them
now and then
but all she wanted
was for him to arrive
just a quick word
and maybe kiss
before her brothers
collared him
for the judo practice
the last time he came
and practiced
he had them both down
on the ground in minutes
and she stood
and clapped and cheered
what had she shown him?
that was between
she and him
not for her snooping
brothers to know
she looked up
the narrow road
that led to the farmhouse
but he wasn't in sight
just a car
then a tractor
slowly moving along
whose driver waved
(and she embarrassed
waved back)
one of her brothers
was on the ground
the other stood triumphantly
hands in the air
she looked away
she caught
the summery air
the sight of birds
in flight
but not him
and she'd put on
her new jeans
and top( too tight
her mother said)
with a flowery pattern
then he was coming
over the hill
riding his bike
and the ******
of excitement
ran through her being
and she stood expectantly
by the gate
trying to appear casual
unconcerned
and he dismounted his bike
and came over
his Elvis style quiff
his jeans and shirt
and despite herself
she stood there on tiptoes
her body tingling
and he smiled
and shyly kissed
her cheek
and touched her hand
then walked to her brothers
and they came at him
with their judo moves
and taunts and laughter
and she stood there
watching
sensing the kiss
on her cheek
burn into her skin
and light a fire
of passion within
waiting and watching
feeling his touch
on her hand
(not to be washed off)
and she rubbed
her finger along
where he had laid
his touch
and inwardly
she mused
and thought
o God
o too much.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
I was "hands are tied" denied
by a Bloatfly with two eyes,
four wings, six feet, and no *****
A gene splicing brainchild
high on the benzene manslaughter
fuming up from the shores below.
He was snooping through a kaleidoscope
Excavating my frontal lobe when he noticed
the furious drone of an active anthill catacomb.
Next thing you know Jealousy's backbiting nag
is setting it's sites on his uninviting neck,
going in for a quick pulse check.
Ready for war, no need for cures attitude
he grabbed a scalpel and evened the score.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
by Arcassin Burnham
you and me were rebels,
you and me were *** addicts,
you and me were against the world,
trying to take a stab at it,
you use to have this habit,
of walking down the street,
and chasing me down,
begging for forgiveness sweetly,
your family were all jerks,
saying this wouldnt work,
but little did they know,
sooner or later you were gonna give birth,
so we kept it a secret,
and waiting til the time was right,
with your sister snooping around,
i just stayed away for some nights,
looking at the next day,
thinking this would be over,
just to see your face again,
choosing different closures,
ill never make that mistake again,
blue hair,
covered my chest,
without a single regret,
remember that time you were single,
feeling desperate,
lights on all your walls,
pictures with all the phone numbers,
settings that couldnt be relapsed,
wishing she was a dog lover,
or my lover.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC