"splots" poems
18 Herding screams like crocheted baubles
He plucked each target from the rooftops
With the grace of a fishermen
Slicing hairs off heads
And coke cans from hands
With a skill most of his ex army mates
Would have been proud off,
Piercing dreams with hard earned sweat
Flicking art with each bullet
Ripping policemen in half
And people running to his rescue
Into splots of paint,
Slowly drowning in his own happiness
With each ****
Unaware you can’t **** ghosts
With bullets
Until it was too late.
***
19
Swollen with nerves
Scaled around the outskirts
Of what he had just reported
The police inspector
Spent the next 10 minutes
After his interview with the press
Panting with breath,
Fathomless in his guilt
Covered in a paused sweat
Lighting cigarette after cigarette
Like a stale perfume
Fragile in increasing nerves
Out wearied across the stars
Until a colleague joined him saying
‘Did they buy it, sir?
To which he answered
'I know I wouldn't.'
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
The ***** of the pen,
The splots of ink.
They numb me,
And they create me.
Pouring out my tears,
Out my soul,
For all those who are
There to listen.
I can't help but wish
That I didn't have to do this,
That cloud nine is my home,
But reality must be faced.
The ***** of the pen,
The splots of ink.
They still numb me,
And they still create me.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC