"urged" poems
No accounting for taste.
What you dislike
and called a waste
is what I like.
You call cheese,honey
I called it bitter pill.
You prefer a monkey
while chimp makes me chill.
You like worshipping sun
I love worshipping God
It really fun
you called mine odd.
I lived in tradition
You lived in modernity
But in addition
I lived in christianity.
You urged me to study biology
I urged you to learn Shakespeare
You want me to live by astrology
Let poetry be your spear.
You prefer winter
that is your choice
Mine is summer
when I'll rejoice.
When you lay on your bunk,
you hear the music,rock
but I listen to punk
who should be given a sock?
You love a black lady
with long dark hair
I love a white baby
to be my heir.
You desire democracy
as system of your
government
I desire theocracy
it had the best management.
Let us be a union
Let there be chaste
Let's tolerate each
one's opinion
for no accounting
for taste.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
To ill is scourge hazard of modern man;
The way of life which tricked you leaves you weak.
Before it pounced, prevent you must! You can,
Your visions blur, your limbs cut, your times bleak.
Avoid refined sweetness pure, you should know,
The more you love to eat the more you crave;
Your sweet tongue urged pleasures deals a cruel blow,
The more you indulge, closer be your grave.
This sickness gradual erosion of health,
Like shrinking pools merciless sun would drain.
A diabetic's woe: no amount of wealth,
Could stop the vines that binds and break the chain.
Without remedy and won't heal for good,
So sweat, please monitor intake of food.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Volunteers, PSGs, Staffs
Executive Directors
And higher task allocators.
People pass by
Mic's were off
Facade was the banner of hope.
Voices all over the provinces
All with the same goal
Rightly urged with own reasons.
Two faces were present
Painted with grimace
Or with broaden smiles.
*The screening was stern and severe
Camera rolls on with Level 2
"Next," "Give me another song"
The voice sounds no roughs of plead
A voice pushing rivals
To their very own frontiers
I was startled
So this is how they do it
Selection, great screenings
There're expectators
There're hope hurtles
Dreams will sooner be pulled of.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
Bruised and battered a friendship
Sometimes hangs by a tiny thread
As we came to the edge
Urged on , by all , but our own souls
We stop for friendship sake
Staring at the rocks of death below
We walked the cliff edge black
Hearts pounding like stampeding rhino
Charging our very path
Dragons of fear circle over head
Breathing fire over all
Pride clamors for higher ground
Standing tall and righteous
We fly high in the sky
Preying like vultures
Search for every fault
Feeling lost and alone
We seek the lower land
With pastures lush and green
And soil deep and rich
Where horses softly munch
Teaching us their gentle ways
For the loss of a friend
Can be to much to bear
In this already harsh world
Weighing like lead on our back
Like the captain of our own ship
We cling to the end
As our world sinks from under us
Breaking boards and smashing masts
Many splinter blind our eyes
As we float together in darkness
Waiting , for the storm to pass
Then the great sewer grabs our very souls
And throws us to the earth
Braking our ego shells
With troubles of our time
And sew new friendship
To be born anew
As only the friendship
Which has great strength
The power to endure many deaths
That see through much lashing pain
Can ever earn its name
For friendship forged in great heat
Will find itself sealed to the eternal time
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
I wonder how many seconds of insane courage it would take me to get up and walk away from everything I've ever loved. To never look back and willingly end up lost. I want to get caught up in the moment of being lonely and let it take me away. Away from here.At one point in your life, you'll feel like your back is against the wall and there's no point in looking for a way out. Today I caught hold of that feeling, a black restlessness settled in my bones and urged me get lost and run away. Sometimes I think it would solve all of my problems and that all of the people who ever used me would wake up with saddened hearts and guilty minds. It would be nice to leave behind a world of hurt for a beautiful, bright light.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
In ruck and quibble of courtfolk
This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene
With hands like derricks,
Looks fierce and black as rooks;
Why, all the windows broke when he stalked in.
Her dainty acres he ramped through
And used her gentle doves with manners rude;
I do not know
What fury urged him slay
Her antelope who meant him naught but good.
She spoke most chiding in his ear
Till he some pity took upon her crying;
Of rich attire
He made her shoulders bare
And solaced her, but quit her at cock's crowing.
A hundred heralds she sent out
To summon in her slight all doughty men
Whose force might fit
Shape of her sleep, her thought-
None of that greenhorn lot matched her bright crown.
So she is come to this rare pass
Whereby she treks in blood through sun and squall
And sings you thus :
'How sad, alas, it is
To see my people shrunk so small, so small.'
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Pale legs sprawl out;
untangling and stretching,
as I absorb the
Montana air.
Isolated, we sit,
under the big
sky.
Silent.
White clouds float
through a sea of
orange.
The same shade of
orange as those sugary
push-up's my father would
shove down my
throat.
Gas station sweets
to make me
me forgive
him.
I shake the feeling
of comparisons—
they never did me
any good.
Instead, I lie down
and allow you
to touch my
tense body.
Softly, you
reach over, muffling
words of beauty and
astonishment.
I do not flinch.
I flash a smile
and focus on
Montana.
The mountains in
West Virginia
rolled; they flowed,
so graciously
together.
There was never a
road that was not
winding.
I've never
seen a rugged
mountain.
Snow-capped and
radiant.
Not until Montana.
Until this moment,
I, too, have
tried to
flow.
Living the same ways,
in which I experienced,
Mother Nature.
Going through the
motions—
with no purpose.
No passion.
The fear of becoming
an abrasive,
overbearing woman
urged me to
flow.
To slide through
life, barely
noticed.
Never climbing
for more,
to discover the
true beauty in
becoming
a bit
rocky.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:06 PM UTC
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Is hugging a fulfilling experience for you? Did you have parents who felt comfortable hugging? Are you hugging others the way you were hugged? Or have samsung galaxy s6 edge. You consciously chosen to hug in a different way? As a Marriage.But what if my pleasure is using your swimming pool Or your wifeOr eating your dog or your wife ? In the realm of hedonism Købe samsung galaxy s6.For instance.Because a phobia is a total connection to pain.Consider looking over again that winter catalog of courses that you local Junior College is offering.He sees the wine not at all,.my intuition urged me to go immediately and not to wait for the weekend,seven day a week preferably.he or she writes the lines instead,abundance,
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Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor
Number 1
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.
Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.
One showed a vain and noisy ****
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.
And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.
Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.
And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.
All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.
The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.
The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,
Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.
The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe.
"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."
"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please."
And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!"
The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.)
The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.
Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!
Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
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Through grain fields with bayonets fixed,
from Belleau Woods the Germans came.
The sixth Marines in shallow pits
unleashed a deadly metal rain.
The French collapsed upon the left
Their flank exposed by craven fear
The Marines held fast when urged to flee:
"Retreat?, Monsieur? We just got here."
By June the sixth, it fell to them
to take a Hill to save the French.
A German company with machine guns
waited for them, well entrenched.
Their tactics from another war,
Audacious yes, but not too clever
"Come on, you ******** Dan Daly roared,
"Do you really want to live forever?"
With casualties high, so many dead
The Marine Corps held the hill by night.
Counter attacks were fended off
some times with fists and K bar knife.
Now the cannon of both sides
rained steel where the combatants stood:
A once beautiful preserve of princes
was turned into a shattered wood.
Through mustard gas and cannon fire
The Marines advanced into the Wood.
Silenced machine guns and cut bared wire
till the enemy fled, this time for good.
Before the flag at Iwo flew,
Before the Canal's jungle squalor
Marines were nicknamed "Devil Dogs"
by the Germans who admired valor.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
The third moon brought forth from the shadow dark.
Gentle breeze freewheeled across the lakeshore.
Windswept was the air, in peace night was marked-
Unyielding stillness, blooming fairness more.
Silky pastel cloth, gushing curtain soft.
The window let in hushed waft soothing cool.
Fixed firmly on shore with poles planted stiff,
A pavilion meek light heartened the pool.
By the portico was a tree bent down
Whose white flowers bloomed lovely as a nymph.
Its jagged branches, lumped of golden-brown,
Delicately grown each emerald leaf.
Underneath its shades were cheery plantlets;
Pebbles hard and cold; red earth spongy ground;
Flying whirly bugs, glittering bead lets.
Fair maiden deferred, there then can be found.
Pleasing to the eye, that dignified dress
In white noble silk with fine needlecraft.
Regal as she stood, just for a mistress.
Mystic was her eyes, a soul was grafted.
Filled with potent life in her burning stare.
Profound as the deep, tranquil as it surge.
One may glimpse straight to, utmost one can't bare.
To its mysteries, one gave in and urged.
Verdant her hair was, hearty as it shone.
Longer than she was, white as the moonlight.
In her neck are chains, beads and shells she owned.
Varies in sizes, things that make her bright.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 5:30 AM UTC
Because you never yet have loved me, dear,
Think you you never can nor ever will?
Surely while life remains hope lingers still,
Hope the last blossom of life's dying year.
Because the season and mine age grow sere,
Shall never Spring bring forth her daffodil,
Shall never sweeter Summer feast her fill
Of roses with the nightingales they hear?
If you had loved me, I not loving you,
If you had urged me with the tender plea
Of what our unknown years to come might do
(Eternal years, if Time should count too few),
I would have owned the point you pressed on me,
Was possible, or probable, or true.
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It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...
I built everything —
it was so clear.
Even though —
it was chaos.
People were worried.
But it was simple.
It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.
Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.
I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.
It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.
Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.
I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?
My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
On the face of it, there isn't much about this bird
To stop me in my tracks.
Brown, oblivious, busy with the ground
It totters along on stilted legs
Probing among the frozen fields.
It's the name that's the trouble.
Childhood hours spent copying pictures
From the Readers' Digest Book of Birds
Call to mind the name, 'Curlew'.
In my house, though, birds had Scots names
and my dad, a linguistic David Bellamy
Urged us to conserve these rare words
or lose them forever.
Goldfinch? Gowdspink!
Starling? Stuckie!
Blue *** Umm...
But the undistinguished gentleman before me
was definitely a whaup.
Curlew or whaup?
Which is it to me?
The English of books
or the fading Scots, maybe closer
to the bird's wild home?
Textbook reality
or romantic poetry?
Or both - can the creature sit
in two states at once?
"Schrodinger's Curlew", I think with a smile.
("Schrodinger's Whaup!" bellows the bit of my dad
that lodges in my head.)
Here, under a cloud of my own breath
In the low winter light,
Neither seems quite adequate.
And then, untouched by my musings
The bird spreads its wings and lifts,
Naming itself, with a long, pure note
And my heart, in two states,
Leaps
and breaks.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
Three summers ago
I loved a boy
who's hair when moved
by wind or hand
was always magical,
who possessed tanned skin
and eyes so blue
they were waters to drown in.
Around him I felt enchanted
and he was enthralling.
He captivated me,
turned me into a slave of my emotions,
with words and promises
I knew he couldn't make come true.
"Run," my friends urged me, "as fast as you can."
But without him life was jaded,
their warning
had been voiced too late.
Already I had pricked my finger,
on a spinning wheel
and fallen head over heels
in that chemically induced slumber
we sometimes call love.
He opened a door for me that led straight
into a world filled with
bushes of roses
and buckets of sunshine,
I promptly forgot that too much sunshine
scalds the skin
and turns it a burning, vivid red,
almost as vivid
as the crimson blood
a touch from the thorns of roses draws.
I knew I had been warned so I stayed there
bleeding and burning,
swearing to myself as I suffered
that I would never again
give my heart to someone
who would not give me theirs in return.
This summer, three years later,
being around you
means feeling like being able to combust spontaneously
and I cannot forget
the sensation of my skin in contact with yours.
It made me realise
that though I have always loved you,
I started loving you a little bit too much.
You are my every thought.
They say you never make the same mistake twice,
that it is your own stupid fault the second time around.
But if it really was a choice
why then is it
that I spend all my nights these days
pleading with the universe
to let me unlove you.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
I wish I could spare you words like beautiful, babe, figure and thin.
I wish I could guarantee you a complete disregard for the size of your *******
Or the length of your legs.
I pray never to find you hunched over the toilet
Or hiding a sandwich under books in your bag.
What will the equivalent of cyberbullying be, in ten years time?
I will try, so very hard, to keep you safe.
Please, always talk to each other, and to me.
Share your heart’s bleedings
And I will help you staunch the flow.
I will find the courage to share my failings
And the confidence to pass on my successes,
Both were instrumental in my becoming the woman I am,
A woman I hope you will be proud of, and applaud.
It is hard to be a woman, in this world,
Urged, relentlessly to perfection,
Bombarded with it, drowned in it,
But perfection is a myth, and becomes imperfect with attainment,
It is the imperfections that will mesmerise,
Embrace them, love them, let them shine.
How long did it take me to learn these lessons?
Have I learned them, even now?
Sometimes I think I have, then I become overwhelmed
By anxiety and self-doubt.
This will happen to you too,
I cannot hope to save you from it
But I can provide some armour.
Think for yourselves,
Reject the babble and the screens, the illusion of celebrity
Twenty-first century addictions.
Do not become a slave to technology.
I can see how hard that will be,
But it must be done, if you are to remain people,
Retain your humanity.
I will help you; I will hold your hands.
You are tiny now, but I can see the strength within you both,
And I will nurture it, protect it,
Then it will protect you, out there.
I promise I will always be your tigress,
But you will not always be my little cubs
I will have to find a way to sheath my claws,
And let you stalk your own prey,
And evade the predators, just as I have done.
I watch you, playing happily together in the sun,
And wish you peace, and love, and joy.
Such simple things, yet so elusive.
I will not show you this poem.
But I will read it, frequently,
And try to keep my promises.
My heart thuds in my chest, each a double-beat
A constant repetition of your names,
Tattooed onto my soul.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
Love Maze
Through the blood and sweat I write
a wishful story you'll remember.
A flower which bloomed too soon I thought
was only my own to surrender.
A voice I once heard urged me
to speak myself and love myself.
Although I attempted to touch it
That voice I heard, was someone else.
I ran around in a pool of tears
afraid and wet from pain.
I ran around only in circles
it was a maze I wandered around in vain.
And so I heard that lonely ballad,
a voice that wasn't my own.
In my pool of tears as I searched
I realized my maze was made of stones.
"A little push, a little tug"
I heard the voice tell me.
"Is all it takes to begin the growth
of your very own journey."
I felt it's warmth was
the closest to reality.
The voice that kept on
urging me.
For when I swam ahead
instead of search, I realized
I had found my magic shop
undisguised, it vaporized...
The stones fell away
my maze was shattered.
For now I saw before me
a "love" maze, the stones were all scattered.
-Little Saint
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 1:25 PM UTC
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels
The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
3.1k
A horrific thunderbolt
hit me right at my chest.
Oh! what an assault.
A hundred carafes of poison
or
the thousand rounds of bullets
would have hurt less
than the pain it caused
when
you abandoned me.
But,
I tried to deal with it.
‘Move on’,
I urged my inner me.
‘I am not a loser.
Quitting is never an option’,
I tried to pacify the anguish.
It did not aid.
The palpable twinge
troubled more;
aww! my delicate heart.
To sweep away the woe,
I pact with the *****
Alas!
Every sip of the nasty tipple
ousted heavy flood
from my shuddering eyes.
I could tell you , love,
that was quite a sight.
Still the heart pounding,
the excruciating truth,
still unsolved.
I banged my liquor’s glass
in sheer dismay.
Sane enough to halt
the bleeding from the wound,
I searched the bandage.
Sadly, the wound was in heart.
- Bhaskar Dhakal
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
Then dark with dripping blood it gave a howl
and cried again: 'Our damaged branches ache!
Your pillage maims me! Can't you feel at all?
We who were men are now this barren brake.
You'd grant us your respect and stay your hand
were we a thicket not of souls but snakes.'
As wood still green starts burning at one end
and from its unlit end the burning stick
drips sap, and hisses with escaping wind,
so from the broken stump there oozed a mix
of words and blood: a frothy babbling gore.
I dropped the branch. My fear had made me sick.
'Poor wounded soul, could he have grasped before,'
my sage replied, 'what now he sees is true,
and blindly trusted in poetic lore,
then he need not have so insulted you.
But as there was no other way to learn
I urged him to a test that grieved me too.
Tell us who you were, that he, in turn,
can set your honor freshly back in style
among those he will teach when he returns.'
The trunk: 'Your speech, by raising hope that I'll
regain repute, makes words arise in me.
I mean to talk, if you will stay a while:
I was the one entrusted with the keys
to Federigo's mind, and it was sweet
to share his thought and guard his strategy
for noble ventures secret in my keep —
so faithfully I filled this glorious post,
I gladly sacrificed my health and sleep...'
2.7k
It was on Hallowe'en when we said we'd meet;
as we thought it might be romantically spooky;
and I trotted gaily along the pathway
through the dimly-lit park
where the predator gay *** maniacs roamed
hoping for a bit of backdoor action
and my excited little heart went
"YI YI YI YI YI YAAAAARRRGGGHHH!"
with eager anticipation
of a hot new nymphomaniac date.
We had been a-texting with
ever-increasing frankness
for several weeks and I was beginning
to get tired of wiping the keyboard clean
after each bout of frenzied
manual self-stimulation
which she had boldly urged me to
and the built-in camera was out of order
because of the damp ***** build-up.
I found the pictures she sent me
stimulating to say the very least
especially the one with the melon
peeping out from between her legs
and I found her blood-red eyes
rather exciting really
once I got used to them;
and I was quite looking forward
to the love bites she promised me
which was why I had washed my neck
with particular attention to the blackheads.
Promptly at the stroke of midnight
my putative mistress arrived
with a ******* great clap of thunder
and to say I was surprised by her sulphurous breath
would be putting it mildly
and the fifty-five inch waist
was a bit of a disappointment,
and I honestly and truly think
she might have mentioned
the suppurating scabs
and oozing boils
or at least hinted at them.
As I fought the ravening hell-bitch off
with the hatchet I had wisely brought
in my briefcase as a safety precaution
once more I rued my innocence:
how many times have I been let down
after such high hopes from internet dating
and yet - trusting soul that I am -
I had again let my heart go astray.
Once it was all over
and I gazed down at her hideous
and mutilated corpse bleeding
and twitching on the ****** bitumen,
I lifted up her skirt
just to check the melon photo
hadn't been a fake;
and although there was no large
piece of fruit in situ at the time
I could see it had always
been a very real possibility.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
The lotus calls another time;
right now, just bring your lips to mine—
a congress of the simplest kind,
yet steeped in fever, still divine,
this tangled frame of skin and breath
urged onward to its little death
on rolling seas of hands and hips;
the synthesis of fingertips—
my shaking legs, a testament
to a winter's afternoon well spent.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 2:26 PM UTC
I see you at the meetings,
but you never say hello.
You’re busy all the time you’re there
with those you really know.
I sit among the members,
yet I’m a lonely gal.
The new ones feel as strange as I;
the old ones pass us by.
**** it, you folks urged us to join
and talked of fellowship,
You could just cross the room, you know,
but you never make the trip.
Can’t you just nod your head and smile
or stop and shake a hand,
get over your mom’s good intentions . 15
Then go sit among your friends?
Now that I’d understand.
I’ll be at your next meeting,
and hope that you will spend
The time to introduce yourself,
I joined to be your friend
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
Her eyes danced with the tiny flames that held a secret
each growing brighter when they urged to yank
the oxygen from her heart and let the sparks console
the deep holes bursting with pleasure
She dabbles in the waves of fire and brimstone
The honey dipped arms monopolize the dry neck
Squeezing harder, and harder
The metallic taste of rust shoves in front her teeth
Her eyes beg to fall out to stop witnessing the desecration
She tries not to let the secret out
but her decomposed body bows down to the forensic earth
Lying in her death bed she knows
She tasted the burnt coals
And forgot to tell Adam
She won't see him in heaven.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC