"toenails" poems
*Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Chops'
because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy
took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed alot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Autumn'
because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed alot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.
Once on a paper torn from his notebook
he wrote a poem
And he called it 'Innocence: A Question'
because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
because he never showed her
That was the year Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
or even talked
And the girl around the corner
wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at 3am he tucked himself into bed
his father snoring soundly.
That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
he tried another poem
And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing'
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each ****** wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
because this time he didn't think
he could reach the kitchen*
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
a girlfriend came in
built me a bed
scrubbed and waxed the kitchen floor
scrubbed the walls
vacuumed
cleaned the toilet
the bathtub
scrubbed the bathroom floor
and cut my toenails and
my hair.
then
all on the same day
the plumber came and fixed the kitchen faucet
and the toilet
and the gas man fixed the heater
and the phone man fixed the phone.
noe I sit in all this perfection.
it is quiet.
I have broken off with all 3 of my girlfriends.
I felt better when everything was in
disorder.
it will take me some months to get back to normal:
I can't even find a roach to commune with.
I have lost my rythm.
I can't sleep.
I can't eat.
I have been robbed of
my filth.
16.8k
Loving me with my shoes off
means loving my long brown legs,
sweet dears, as good as spoons;
and my feet, those two children
let out to play naked. Intricate nubs,
my toes. No longer bound.
And what's more, see toenails and
all ten stages, root by root.
All spirited and wild, this little
piggy went to market and this little piggy
stayed. Long brown legs and long brown toes.
Further up, my darling, the woman
is calling her secrets, little houses,
little tongues that tell you.
There is no one else but us
in this house on the land spit.
The sea wears a bell in its navel.
And I'm your barefoot ***** for a
whole week. Do you care for salami?
No. You'd rather not have a scotch?
No. You don't really drink. You do
drink me. The gulls **** fish,
crying out like three-year-olds.
The surf's a narcotic, calling out,
I am, I am, I am
all night long. Barefoot,
I drum up and down your back.
In the morning I run from door to door
of the cabin playing chase me.
Now you grab me by the ankles.
Now you work your way up the legs
and come to pierce me at my hunger mark
13.4k
I have been going to the track for so
long that
all the employees know
me,
and now with winter here
it's dark before the last
race.
as I walk to the parking lot
the valet recognizes my
slouching gait
and before I reach him
my car is waiting for me,
lights on, engine warm.
the other patrons
(still waiting)
ask,
"who the hell is that
guy?"
I slip the valet a
tip, the size depending upon the
luck of the
day (and my luck has been amazingly
good lately)
and I then am in the machine and out on
the street
as the horses break
from the gate.
I drive east down Century Blvd.
turning on the radio to get the result of that
last race.
at first the announcer is concerned only with
bad weather and poor freeway
conditions.
we are old friends: I have listened to his
voice for decades but,
of course, the time will finally come
when neither one of us will need to
clip our toenails or
heed the complaints of our
women any longer.
meanwhile, there is a certain rhythm
to the essentials that now need
attending to.
I light my cigarette
check the dashboard
adjust the seat and
weave between a Volks and a Fiat.
as flecks of rain spatter the
windshield
I decide not to die just
yet:
this good life just smells too
sweet.
9k
I like my bare feet
right in front of the fan.
It tickles,
the wind;
blowing kisses on my toes.
My toenails are red.
I'd just noticed; I'd forgotten
how I painted them shiny
as I hummed nonsense words.
It's chipping off now,
I'd have to repaint them.
Blue?
Purple?
No, I'll stick to red.
Red has many meanings
but I do not care much for them.
Some things are better left simple -
My toenails are just one of those things.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
She was ugly.
A snake of a girl- beady
blue eyes and
blood-red toenails.
The small snigger creeping
up through her perfectly
kept teeth as she spat
at the garbage
of the street: the creatures
she couldn’t see
through her beady
blue eyes.
Her mama would dress her
up in yellow ribbons and green bows.
“Why honey,
you make a sweet little
dandelion,”.
She liked to be
a dandelion, but secretly
she dreamed of being
a marigold:
Lips parted to the sun,
seeds planted
in the rich soil of her own
blackness.
She wanted to be a marigold.
But she was just
a dandelion,
stepping on petals and
weeding out whatever
she longed to be.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
lonely as a dry and used orchard
spread over the earth
for use and surrender.
shot down like an ex-pug selling
dailies on the corner.
taken by tears like
an aging chorus girl
who has gotten her last check.
a hanky is in order your lord your
worship.
the blackbirds are rough today
like
ingrown toenails
in an overnight
jail---
wine wine whine,
the blackbirds run around and
fly around
harping about
Spanish melodies and bones.
and everywhere is
nowhere---
the dream is as bad as
flapjacks and flat tires:
why do we go on
with our minds and
pockets full of
dust
like a bad boy just out of
school---
you tell
me,
you who were a hero in some
revolution
you who teach children
you who drink with calmness
you who own large homes
and walk in gardens
you who have killed a man and own a
beautiful wife
you tell me
why I am on fire like old dry
garbage.
we might surely have some interesting
correspondence.
it will keep the mailman busy.
and the butterflies and ants and bridges and
cemeteries
the rocket-makers and dogs and garage mechanics
will still go on a
while
until we run out of stamps
and/or
ideas.
don't be ashamed of
anything; I guess God meant it all
like
locks on
doors.
6.2k
The hanky he was sobbing into was crusty,
***** unwashed, unclean; yet strangely comforting to a little boy,
as he cried he made his way to a culvert behind the school,
some place the other kids couldn’t see him crying,
it was more comfortable being near rocks
-next to that watershed for some reason?
He looked down at his antagonist,
the scaly-green feet,
they made him cry harder,
he lamented…
“Why have I been tormented so?”
“Who gave me these feet? Who made me this way, lizardly, scaly, an animal no?”
“What class am I, what species? Are those toenails, claws or a disease?”
“The way I’m treated makes me sad. Where is my mommy, where is my dad?
“Did I come from an egg? Didn’t we all? Why do they pick on me, make me feel so small?”
“My feet are reptilian even I can see that!”
“Am I part lizard? Are there horns on my back?”
“I can’t hide in sneakers ‘cause the claws tear them apart.”
“Not great at math, language or art.”
“They always pickin’ on me, today it’s in the schoolyard.”
“That is why I sit here on the rocks crying with my ugly feet and sullen heart,”
“Cannot run fast so no baseball, basketball or soccer…”
“The other kids tried to stuff me in my own locker…”
“One mean little girl even threw a dead mouse at me!”
“But I’m only part lizard as far as I can see?”
“My English teacher says that my words are like a bird song”
“If I talk like a birdie along with monster’s feet, no wonder I don’t belong!”
“Even still, to be so mean to me, I know that it is wrong…”
“ONE DAY I WILL SHOW THEM ALL, THESE FEET THEY HAVE A PURPOSE!”
“MY WORDS OF SONG AND FEET OF MAGIC COMBINE A COSMIC CIRCUS!”
“I am no freak of nature, no forest Pan or Satyr…”
“It is not the way I look, my clothes or feet that matter…”
“It is what is in my heart and mind, the things I do that truly count…”
“For those things that make us different, for they are tantamount…”
“Seven heads, seven stages, seven fables, seven sages”
“Seven stars and seven wonders and seven heavens that we’re under…”
“And all those things they say are great and marvelous about us…”
“Will one day be written in the book by Great Old Uncle Taautus!” *
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
I have lived long enough to see the best and worst in ones self.
I love the shape of my eyes,
I love the curve of my lips.
I hate the weird mole on my cheek,
I hate the crease in my chin.
I love the shape of my chest,
I love the curve of my hips.
I hate my toenails,
I hate my brittle bones.
I love my ouward confidence,
I love my unconditional love.
I hate my worrisome ways,
I hate my anxiety.
I love my near perfect smile,
I love my xylophone ribs.
There are days I want to love anyone but me.
There are days when loving myself is harder,
Than getting out of bed in the morning.
But I am done feeling sorry for myself.
I am strong.
I am powerful.
I am radiant.
And on some days,
I am exquisitly beautiful.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 2:25 PM UTC
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
you in quail feathers means
that your red is my red
and the way that you taste pizza
is the way that I taste it
our
homogeneous brains
hard mother
hard father
the states we were raised in
melt running through
area 41 where the nefarious
Rolando implanted
our splitting
branches
qualia
what it means for you
to have mental states
pure consciousness
perceiving you there
in the corner
your toenails still painted
purple
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
I've never thought less of you
than in begging moment, flipped
on smooth river rocks, arms wide
on expanded hips, smile
fake and expectant.
You paddle kayaks in
awkward plaids and throwaway
sweaters, grinning sweetly
at dimples and polished toenails
and forgetting my name
while I repeat yours in echo.
On tall bicycle, you look down
at tear-strewn carpet, at
lingering rain, and you lean
to one side, precarious balance
while the sun peeks through the blinds.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
not everyone who holds a pen is a writer.
not everyone who rides a horse is a jockey.
not everyone who clips their toenails is a podiatrist.
not everyone who smokes knows the feeling.
not everyone who chokes is a sadist.
not everyone who lies is an actor.
not everyone who wears a moustache is a communist.
not everyone who smiles is the sunlight.
not everyone who tries is a failure.
not everyone who shouts knows the silence.
not everyone who cries knows depression.
not everyone who laughs gets the joke.
not everyone who speaks is a teacher.
not everyone who hears truly listens.
not everyone who died really lived.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 9:41 PM UTC
A quiet book of words, from a lonely man in his room
Her tiny voice, like pebbles rolling down a stream,
surrounded by pines
Sand between her toes, humming a song her mother used to sing,
forgot the words
Holding my head in your arms, blue little room, listening to
the wind chimes
Your bamboo forest, outside this ***** window, full of
ladybugs & grasshoppers
Green grass drying to hollow shells, snapped off by careless hands
Brushed away by gentle winds, spread among limestone & juniper
Standing barefoot on the paving stones, her toenails painted
yellow with black dandelions
A sip of iced tea, lemon, a bite of steamed rice
Trying to put a few thoughts together, letting the day simmer down
We'll sit together a while longer, listen to the crickets in the bamboo
Waiting, quietly waiting on your voice, the only thing
that keeps me dreaming anymore
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 1:00 AM UTC
it's not the large things that send a man to the madhouse
a woman, a
tire that's flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard...
it's not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he's ready for, or
****** ****** robbery, fire, flood...
no, it's the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse...
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left ...
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can **** quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver's license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink's stopped-up, the landlord's drunk,
the president doesn't care and the governor's
crazy.
light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill's up and the, market's
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it's
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there's always ***** and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they're
your friends;
there's always that and worse;
leaky faucet, Christ and Christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.
or making it
as a waitress at norm's on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a car wash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady's purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.
suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and China and Russia and America, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
*** except maybe one to **** in
and the other one around your
gut.
with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.
so be careful
when you
bend over.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 3:48 PM UTC
going to the horror films
at ten years old
i wanted to be bitten by the vampire ladies
you know the ones
red brides from the netherworlds
with heaving *******
divinities of evil
with that dah look
in silky white gowns
a little messy from sleeping in the dirt
culture vulture goth girls
with upside down crosses
slags all gauzy bats in the belfry
deranged
but after all they where
dead
and dreadfully appealing
and I'm pretty fussy
so what the hell
they walked like floats
in marshy air
never touching the ground
above frozen dark crypt terrains
with twinkly bare feet
and black high glossed toenails
staring out of blood spilled eyes
drooling cloudy mouth hollows
and a yearning hungry countenance
encouraging me
to get closer
to bite me all over
pierce me
with needly fangs
puncturing little holes in tender me
making me leak like bad plumbing
until i sloped into the bog below
of course, i was panicked
all trembly
but i had a big one
for these evil shadowy ******* too
so i thought
yes
no
yes
no
yes
no
are you gonna **** me?
i asked
they drooled
ooow okay, i thought is it gonna hurt?
they shook there heads yes!
and drooled
real bad?
i inquired further
ah ha
they lingered glaring
drooling
i guess, waiting for me to make up my mind
oh okay anything for you
you dark dreamy girls
dilapidated queens of hell
with ballet derrières
"down and down I go
round and round I go
in a spin, lovin' the spin I'm in
under the old black magic called love"
after all at ten years old,
i already knew i was
a horror *****
and just a little turned on
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:58 AM UTC
The steak tartare had painted toenails
And manicured hands of polished silk;
Mouth with apple, daintily wedged,
Floating in a bath of milk.
I helped myself to a silky ****
Sliced across it's still-pink grain,
Seasoned with a squirt of lemon
And coarse ground pepper, for a tang.
The seasoned broth was the finest gravy
To moisten the neat cuts of meat,
And sweetened fat, in a frothy pie
Ended the repast, with a treat.
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
I miss
Your crazy hair ( It fits you perfectly)
Your intoxicating eyes (I want to get lost in them)
Your beautiful smile (Especially the evil one)
Your cute nose ( I want to kiss it)
Your amazing mouth (mmmmm)
Your sensitive neck ( I can't wait to kiss it from behind)
Your **** shoulders ( I want to caress them slowly)
Your toned arms ( I want you to wrap them around me)
Your smooth hands (I want them all over my body)
Your perfect ******* ( I want to lick, **** and motorboat them)
Your toned back ( I want to rub it slowly)
Your yummy tummy ( I can't wait to kiss it on my way to ...)
Your swollen **** (I want to lap and **** it)
Your wet ***** ( I long to kiss, lick, finger and **** it)
Your incredible *** ( I want to bite it and slap it)
Your phenomenal legs ( I can't wait to spread them and have you wrap them around me)
Your adorable feet ( I want to massage them for you)
Your tiny toes ( I can't wait to paint your toenails again)
I miss your body, your mind and your spirit ( I want to be one with you) 22
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
Hypocrite women, how seldom we speak
of our own doubts, while dubiously
we mother man in his doubt!
And if at Mill Valley perched in the trees
the sweet rain drifting through western air
a white sweating bull of a poet told us
our ***** are ugly—why didn't we
admit we have thought so too? (And
what shame? They are not for the eye!)
No, they are dark and wrinkled and hairy,
caves of the Moon ... And when a
dark humming fills us, a
coldness towards life,
we are too much women to
own to such unwomanliness.
Whorishly with the psychopomp
we play and plead—and say
nothing of this later. And our dreams,
with what frivolity we have pared them
like toenails, clipped them like ends of
split hair.
3k
chapped lips
sticky and sweet
the popsicle melts
and stains my crisp white dress
a seagull steals the french fry out of a little boy’s hands,
he begins to cry
the busker’s sing songs
of love and loss,
whiskey and wine
the boardwalk creaks
and i dream
of a cold beer on the beach,
the melody of waves reuniting with sand
like long lost friends
the soothing slap of sandals on pavement
freckles and homemade jam
midnight adventures to the park
skinny-dipping in a strangers pool
hopscotch and chalk
freshly painted toenails
the sun gifting us with golden skin and golden hair
adirondack chairs and campfires
fishing in lady evelyn and portaging in temagami
braving the falls at muskegoe
and counting the stars while lying on the bridge
catching frogs in the pond
while drinking coolers in paddle boats
sweaty palms and first kisses,
nervous anticipation
red skies mark the beginning of endless nights
i dip my toes in the fresh water
and the ripples skew my reflection
the man in the moon is happy
and so am i
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 3:26 AM UTC
i detoxed myself under this pale sun
(you stood by and watched the
unfolding saga all the while
questioning the meaning of zen)
the original concept was lost
somewhere along the way
when i dropped the ball
on the forty yard line
(can you recover your own fumbles?)
every time i stand by,
the waiting is eternal
and i become engrossed
in the uselessness of my position,
pondering
(my love for this is a game of solitaire)
i am the ultimate in
irrational action,
a demagogue of dark
pathways and religious
zealotry, trapped beneath
glass floors watching,
trying desperately to
cannibalize my fingers.
i have smoked your toenails
and wandered away listless
at comments unbecoming
and salivated on the fires
set to displace my vessels
(i have seen you ignoring me)
in the coming months i will
rend my eyes and pierce
my skull artificially
so you will be able
to see into my soul and
destroy me more efficiently
(you will know me by the number of the dead)
i will search deep and
long inside this shadow's
shell, extracting this cancer
so i can cook up my
shortcomings and inject
them into a Ken doll
because then at least
i will be pretty.
i will feed my
chilled oatmeal to a
Cantonese family
that will honor me
as the ***** poo-flinger
i am for you.
i will cease to exist
on a plane with your
type, sinking lower
on scale like a rock in
the Mississippi River.
Mom, when i stop
growing up, i will
be the ****** loser
everyone always
thought i would
(aren't you proud?)
(isn't he cute?)
i cannot imagine
surviving your intern camp
after the tattooing of arms,
we will eat the testicles of the
fallen gods and dispense
great suffering on the weak
because of our enlightened
prospects and redemptions
(what do you know about pain?)
i will place my severed head
in a place of prominence, likely
in your bed, right before
i cease to breathe
my eyelids weaken....
flicker, flutter....
i grow tired with the
advent of your indecision,
the totality of abandonment
the lenses fog, fade...
flicker, flutter...
i have run out of things to sacrifice
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
She sets down
her very large glass of Malbec
sighs and lights
a poorly rolled
tampon-like cigarette
the look on her face
bothers me deeply
I open my mouth
with good intentions
and probably should have
said something like
"Are you ok?"
but what came out
went something like
You are nothing to me
just an **** potato
there's almost nothing
that you could provoke
within anyone
except for the cats
Yeah,
I'd bet you could start
the feline revolution
with your poisoned toenails
and mashed carrots
not even seventeen vats of ****
could make you more slippery
No,
I don't want your wet cake
just bees,
endless mayonnaise
and cherry flavoured toxic yoghurt
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
My toenails are metallic blue.
My feet are scrubbed and soft.
An older Asian woman with leathery skin
And crazy soft hands
has polished them to perfection.
She told me about eHarmony
Her slut-clothes
Her elderly boyfriend.
In an accent I could barely understand
She told me about her life.
She rubbed my calves with lime green
Exfoliants
And lotioned my legs
With cream-colored juice.
Her nails were French-tipped
And long.
She flicked off the excess polish with them.
She does this dozens of times a day.
Dozens of pairs of feet.
I wonder how many people have heard her story
And know about her rich boyfriend.
How many people have felt those soft hands
On their toes.
I wonder where else those hands have been
On her old boyfriend.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:18 PM UTC
Eat the fourth cookie.
Bring back that fuzzy green sweater with lint ***** so stubborn
that even the strongest lint roller couldn’t break the bond they have with the sweater.
I know you pick your nose in public.
You stutter every time I ask who lives on Mamaroneck Street.
You have burping contests with yourself while you’re on the toilet.
I don’t care how you clip your toenails on today’s newspaper.
I still read it after you’re done.
I love that you paint each nail in a different neon color,
eat chocolate chips and green tea for breakfast,
and salt your apples.
You cry every time you watch Titanic.
I agree Rose should’ve moved to the side and shared the plank with Jack.
You rap to Baby Got Back fifty nine times in a row.
I wish we danced to it more often.
I wish you would tell me what you write in your red book.
I know you pretend you’re Beyonce in concert while working out,
and think Michael Buble wrote haven’t met you yet for you.
I love that you keep the ticket stubs from every single movie we see in the tea jar under your bed.
You smell of cologne every time you walk into the house.
You don’t know how to whisper. You never have.
You tell me you’ll be back by noon but don’t come back till 7 p.m.
You use your knitting needles as chopsticks when we order sushi,
And don’t stamp any of the letters you send your mom.
Even though you have seven wallets, you keep all your money loose in your bag
and throw away all the pennies in the trash.
You pretend your belly-fat is a puppet that can talk and sing,
And you flirt with the waiter for extra hot sauce.
You hate it when I use your cell-phone
And every night you kiss him goodnight at the train station.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 11:19 AM UTC