"waisted" poems
i had a thought.
i ran out of my room,
down the hallway,
and into the bathroom.
i wriggled out of my worn down, tie dye shirt.
hopping up and down as i pull off my
high-waisted jeans, pulling my pant leg with my foot as i
trample the dark denim to the ground.
i stand there naked, in front of the
harsh, full length mirror.
combing my fingers through my natural, wavy hair.
i contort my face in disgust, cocking
my head slightly to the side.
i close my eyes, and take one deep breath in.
when i open my eyes,
the reflection staring back at me is a thin, natural
beauty.
Her smooth ivory skin glows in the
silvery reflective glass.
Her stomach is flat and toned.
Her ******* lay on Her chest in perfect
proportion to the rest of her petite frame.
i run my fingers down the sides of my body.
my palms trailing along, dipping and
rising with the mounds beneath my skin.
i close my eyes and open them again,
this time taking my reflection for
what it really is.
i am fat.
my skin is pink and spotted with freckles the
colour of blood.
my stomach hangs low, covering the part
a man should see when i'm naked.
my ******* are big.
but not in the way you'd like them to be.
they lay there, sort of lop-sided.
hanging just above my ribs. Another place for
fat to take over.
the cuts on my thighs are hardly noticable
next to
all
that
fat
i can see tears in the eyes of the reflection staring back at me,
but i am numb.
i thought correctly. i am
fat. i am ugly.
Nobody in their right mind would want to
love me.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
Girls my height are supposed to be petite
Skinny and proportional
When I would read seventeen magazine and they would show the best outfits for your body type
Mine was never on there
Not big enough to be curvy
Curvy girls in magazines were curvy all over
and average height
The petite girl wasn't supposed to have curves at all
The petite girl was thin
The petite girl could wear anything
Why can't short girls have *******
Because when we do, we're a fetish
And for some reason, when you fit a fetish people assume you're there for them.
"I like short girls because you can pick them up when you ****
"Short girls don't have to get on their knees."
"Can you **** my **** standing up?"
"A C cup on a short girl is like a DD on a normal girl.”
“I like ******* short girls because I can really take control.”
My mom always criticized me for wanting to dress slutty
And it broke my heart because I never wanted to look slutty
I just wanted to wear what my skinny friends could wear
*And sometimes it's hard when you can't find high waisted shorts that cover your *** all the time, even right after you stand up from sitting in the car for 30 minutes and they rode up a little, but a little on you is a lot because you don't have a flat *** like all of your friends do, but you can't go a size up because then they're too big and they still don't give you the coverage that at first your mom wanted for you but that you now want yourself because you can feel the heat of people staring because girls like you shouldn't wear those kinds of shorts, and at parties they think it's okay to touch if it's not covered, and you've been in this H&M for 3 hours and nothing fits you like it does that tall, pretty girl with the A cups in the fitting room next to yours,*
But how could my mom know that
At 5 ft 4, she weighed 98 lbs on her wedding day
You can wear anything when you look like that
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Maybe we should sympathize
with the tiny waisted girls
that cake their face with a layer of colorful protection
that wear jeans tighter than the sealed bottle of meds
they take to stay skinny.
They cheat their way to the idea of beauty its true.
Pills to take away the fat,
painting their face to attract the opposite ***
Cloths that might as well be a thinner second layer of skin.
Its disgusting, what we consider beautiful
It's sad that girls aspire to achieve it.
Its sad that some do.
I envy maybe, their happiness, but
what if its not real?
What if secretly they feel as we do
the "average" crowd they are "forced" to coexist with
I do wonder, but then and ice cold snarl
from perfect straight white teeth hits me in the face
burns my retina and forces me give an equally evil shot from my
painfully normal features.
And I am reminded of the god awful truth.
They do not wonder what we think,
as if we were a separate species,
they look more alien than we.
God made man in his image
and I'm almost positive
he didn't look like plastic.
They desire to look like the air brushed figures seen in magazines
Something only wishes can achieve.
Something only paper thin models on paper can look like.
Something only a computer can achieve.
Its sad.
I do not envy them.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this close-mouthed waltz.
Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,
of itself of death, and of brandy
that dips its tail in the sea.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
with the armchair and the book of death,
down the melancholy hallway,
in the iris' darkened garret.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this broken-waisted waltz.
In Vienna there are four mirrors
in which your mouth and the echoes play.
There is a death for piano
that paints little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz that dies in my arms.
Because I love you, I love you, my love,
in the attic wherethe children play,
dreaming ancient lights of Hungary
through the noise, the balmy afternoon,
seeing sheep and irises of snow
through teh dark silence of your forehead.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this "I will always love you" waltz.
In Vienna I will dance with you
in a costume with
a river's head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and lilies,
and in the dark wake of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I will have to leave
violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.
3.5k
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Toughness is my warm gooey love
Isolation is the only defense I've developed
I keep reminding myself this is it
My passion never existed
An urge deep frying my mind
My fingers tingling
My heart throbs
My throat suffocating
The words telling me to discontinue have melted into sweet nothings
I'm a *** drive with no destination
A complicated disastrous women
My feet turned to charcoal long ago
I haven't blink in a lifetime
My burnt sunglasses situated against my broken nose
My high waisted skirt accentuates my fate
Perfect, is a pretty ******* explicit world to create
Please no holding the insane
Back away slowly
She's always hoping to bite
Taking chunks of your pride
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
Rehashing the rare
Out with the new,
In with the old.
She's always had a thing
For the things that exude
A quirkiness and a bucolic charm
The smell of old books
The black and the white
Good ol' Chaplin, James Dean
And the Sound of Music
The Beatles, a tape recorder
High-waisted pants
And the gramophone
And a rustic old bar
With a gruff bartender
Who's off his rocker
But he'll double up as your therapist
And for the boy with the dark brown eyes
Who looks across the bar at her.
And smiles.
It's all black and white again
Except this time,
It isn't her favourite Casablanca scene
But a white screen
And a thousand particles
Microcosmic
A milieu of
Unfathomable numbers float
Through the atmosphere
Connecting her to him.
And she doesn't want that.
She's always had a thing for the old,
But he makes her doubt that.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
I hope I'm not the type of person people tolerate.
The type of person that you agree with just to get them so stop speaking.
The type of person who people pity there need for attention.
The type of person who everyone roles there eyes at.
The type of person that brings nothing but waisted time when they speak.
Really what I'm saying is that, I don't want to be like you...
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
*Binne d vlgde 20 min verjaar jy ~ jy word ouer ~ nog 'n jaar verby ~ waisted! Or so it feels! Ma net vi een rede... Its another year I did not spend with you!!! Jys my love at first sight! The love of my life!! And I'm not there wif you!!!! Ek hoop mt my hele hart ~ jy geniet jou aand! Weet net ek sit hier ~ en **** an jo wens ek was daar saam mt jo!!! Happy birthday!!*
Apr 16, 2011
Apr 16, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
If I could erase the mistakes I've made
You would be at the top of my list
I'd erase all the tears I made you cry
And all of the years we missed
I'd erase all the scars I ever caused
And the hurt you carried inside
I'd erase all the times I said "I cared"
But I knew in my heart I lied
I'd erase all the memories that turned out sad
The memories you couldn't forget
I'd erase all the years you waisted on me
The years you learned to regret
I'd erase all the kisses you couldn't take back
And the smiles you threw away
I'd erase all the times that I said I was sorry
I didn't mean them anyway
But for you to forget all the things that I've done
It's really quite easy to see
The only thing left for me to erase
Is nothing more than me
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
I want to know what people see,
I'll never see myself clearly.
My brain changes and contorts my body,
I'll
**** in my stomach till I can't breathe,
Nothing but high waisted skinny jeans,
No tight shirts, dresses, or bikinis.
I'm
too wide in the waist
too broad in the shoulders
too chubby in the fingers
too full in the cheeks
And
I'll never see what people see
I'll never see what makes me, me.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 9:22 PM UTC
All I am is a man
I want the world in my hands
I hate the beach
But I stand in California
With my toes in the sand
Use the sleeves of my sweater
Let's have an adventure
Head in the clouds but my gravity's centered
Touch my neck and I'll touch yours
You in those little high waisted shorts, oh
She knows what I think about
And what I think about
One love, two mouths
One love, one house
No shirt, no blouse
Just us, you find out
Nothing that we don't wanna tell you about, no
'Cause it's too cold
For you here right now
So let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
And if I may just take your breath away
I don't mind if it's not much to say
Sometimes the silence guides our minds to
Move to a place so far away
The goose bumps start to raise
The minute that my left hand meets your waist
And then I watch your face
Put my finger on your tongue
'Cause you love the taste yeah
These hearts adore
Everyone the other beats hardest for
Inside this place is warm
Outside it starts to pour
Coming down
One love, two mouths
One love, one house
No shirt, no blouse
Just us, you find out
Nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about, no, no, no
'Cause it's too cold
For you here right now
So let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
'Cause it's too cold
For you here and now
So let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
Whoa, whoa...
Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Whoa, whoa...
'Cause it's too cold
For you here right now
So let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
It's too cold
For you here right now
Let me hold
Both your hands in the holes of my sweater
And it's too cold,
It's too cold,
The holes of my sweater...
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
Shock to my heart,
Torn all apart,
Still, I can't see,
A better place to be.
Won't somebody come
And save me from myself.
Won't somebody come,
I can't make it by myself.
Trapped by my fears
In my waisted years.
I've searched my soul to find
Some sense of peace of mind.
Won't somebody come
And save me from myself.
Won't sombedy come
I can't make it by myself.
All, all alone.
Never to feel at home.
Why do I feel this way?
Make it all go away...
search on,
for something I won't own
Search, I'm searching on
I'm searching on.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
For the thought of your dreams my mind races
Mad dashs ,shocked faces
But to stare that glint by starlight drapped the caresses of your hair
I trip to find me on your line
Oh right beautiful fields ,waisted time
Your waist on mine
Just a taste , said at nine
we set pace after that line
..
Picture frames on baby's painted nails
Paint me in fame, she replied your insane
Washed face paint dowm drain ,she never kisses again
Her company other then other men is my brother then i move this pen
Words are zen , cherry flavored summer flows
Grass blues and sky growth
Twisted pages on saturn sing burns and we take turns on the wave frank ocean plays
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
I once played a game of cards with the devil, under a blood red moon upon the lake of our lady Babylon. With a grin, the devil did win, for his hand had totally waisted me.
Shower time- It's better than normal time. Especially with the smell of herb in your head. Step out. Dry off. Hit the herb again. It's time to start the day.
I ingest 3 cups of coffee, and hit the herb again. Then I start my day. I go out into the world. Out there where it is cold. Out there to slave the day away just to do it again the next day.
Please tell me that there is something more than this. I beg, but I get nothing.Maybe in the end, that is all there really is... Nothing. This thought's cold logic sinks in, and I am sick.
Sick of things done in repetition to no end. Tired of hearing the same one line joke day in and day out.
Welcome to my store.
Can I get you any more?
Thank you, come again... and again... and again...
I can not take it any more!
Oh, wait! It's time to clock out.
Hear how the pen scratches the paper. Rolling on fragments of thought. Dripping with the same ink as yesterday. I am bleeding all over this notebook. Could I ever write loud enough, so that somebody could hear me screaming?
I once played a game of cards with the devil, under a blood red moon upon the lake of our lady Babylon. Plain and clean, the devil's hand was mean, for it had totally waisted me.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
a pretty face and she’s little waisted
a pretty place and a little wasted
tumble and tip into submission
stumble and slip into position
set all sweating systems to go
as emotions among other things grow
I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive
that’s just the way the story goes
when we remove our whorey clothes
and get right down unto the bone
the nitty gritty, the solid as stone
I want to get down to the heart of you
I want to feel every last part of you
I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive
I will not deceive, please believe
I will not deceive, you best believe
as long as we can receive and relieve
as long as we interweave every eve
darling I would never, could never leave
I will not deceive, I will not deceive
I’ll love you like you won’t believe
you’re the merchant and I’m the thieve
I’ve got a trick slid up inside this sleeve
trust me darling, I will not deceive
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 5:40 PM UTC
There's a reckless wind
whipping 'round the
frayed ends of my hair,
its exodus from the sides
of cars blurring by.
Jazz drummers cycle
flurries of taps and nods.
Twitching wrists for dollars,
their cornflower blue suits
rising with the street sound,
becoming a tent for sweat,
reaching for the dangling dark
held up by clouds and the
screams of horns and the
chimes of chatter.
And here I lean, inside a corner
between an entrance and an exit.
My dreams are starting to
last as long as these cigarettes,
I probably spoke into the chainsmoke --
being pretentious and afraid
under the spill of streetlight.
And here I am, harmfully hoping
my friend comes back, that he
didn't suffer, that he is with god,
that god exists, that I grow into
something that would make
him proud, my parents proud,
make me proud.
All the pretty girls trot the walk,
like surreal thoughts with
white converses and high-waisted
jeans holding the eyes of the few
guys and girls going home alone.
There's no proper way to end this
besides for raw *** real violence,
and more money.
My government only cares about me
once every four years.
My bank account controls me.
I can't buy anything unless
it wants to **** me or love me.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 12:57 PM UTC
i wanted to be a princess
curly and pretty and tight-waisted
crying over braces.
But you handed me some trousers
tore away my ribbons
"we ain't got no shillins for straight teeth
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
she's got a face like a 1990's beauty queen
high waisted shorts
hair pulled over the top with a miniclip
gun tucked in the back
miniclip
on the front of
her blouse
setting them up
knocking them down
converse allstars that she paid $50 for
grazing the rocks by the waterfall
that she poses in front of
dear 1990's beauty queen
you'd like to be innocent again
but your brown eyes
are locked and loaded
it's just a small trick of fate
that you were born in this decade
the girls here are machine gun prima-donnas
and you were born into them
your high-waisted shorts
won't let you out of it
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
The funding of my own little massacre,
my own precious little war crime. My smoke
is everywhere. My father coughs in his sleep.
My mother gags, hangs her head out the window, sick.
My cheap *** before and after cheap ***
I chat up some high-waisted pastiche on Alberta.
She tells me collage this and that and looks
so lit up and skinny, it's a dream.
Where I go to brand myself. I have this image
of a spark on my arm sitting stovetop red,
sinking into the skin, losing color as it digs,
turning to grey and then nothing like the drowning
of a comet's tail in atmosphere. My burns look so good
in the pale dormitory bathroom shower light: so baby tulip
and teeth, so how-I've-made-it-through-the-wringer.
Christ, I should be a film, look at me: so bent and bright,
such a cute boxer, such a prize fight.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
she sits at the dining table
afternoon sun streaming in
doing battle with the cryptic crossword
cursing the old woman she has become when words elude
the hand holding the pen wrinkled like the armpits of the of the eucalypt branches in the garden belongs to the same old crone who uses the walking stick leaning against the fading arm chair
once upon a time she held court
powerhouse of the labor party
corporate tiger
made her fortune from men in suits who cowered before her fearsome glare perfected in the bathroom mirror along with her makeup
mother, wife, business woman
she did it all and had it all
but time passes slowly with each orbit around the sun
time smoothes, soothes and wears away the edges of youth
luring you towards the twilight of lifes great destiny
the glare faded along with the eyes that now need glasses and a reading light for the evening paper
where once she stood tall against destruction of the environment
now she leans on her walking stick advocating Philip Nitschke and her right to exit at a time of her choosing
the ache in her heart for the lost vibrancy dimmed by the arthritis that makes climbing the stairs an exercise of will
prada heels and armani long ago gave way to swollen ankles, dr scholls and elastic waisted slacks
a life well lived does not make growing old any more appealing
she monitors her own decline as her friends pass away around her one by one
lingering at lifes edge as she tries to convince them its ok to go
wondering when her own turn to go will arrive or if she will find the courage to bring it on before her mind or her body betray her
taking mobility and choice in equal measure
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
She had a waist so small he could cup his hands completely around it
This book I read as a young girl
The characters were ooing and ahing about this tiny waisted girl
How pretty she was and how amazing
I remember taking my hands
And trying to reach them around
And they never did reach
I wanted to be a boy, I wanted to play football, and walk around with no shirt
I wanted everyone to think I was a boy
Every boy I read about
Every boy I saw on tv
I mimicked
Boys didn’t get touched
Boys could be safe
So maybe if I acted enough like a boy
I could make it all stop
All the girls my age, there shirts didn’t seem to fit as tight as mine did
My dad said I looked like a ****
My shirts being so tight
My face was red
I didn’t know what I had done
I was just a kid, mom had bought me these clothes
But I had outgrown them they said
I never wore tight clothes again
I wore my clothes baggy
So people couldn’t see me
So they didn’t know how I was framed
We were at a park with some friends one summer day
We were swimming in a creek
I was walking with my mom back to the car
And I heard the cute boys swimming up the way
Say to each other “is that thing a boy or a girl?”
I wanted to cry
I just ran after my mom faster and tried to keep it in
These are the things that make life difficult for women
The things men as understanding and kind as they can be can still never understand
The things that we can’t always put in words
The things we all feel
But rarely have the courage to say
These are the things we as women need to learn how to express so that we may move on and create a new world for little girls
Because until we learn how these problems in us started, we can not learn how to end them.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC
After the storm, when the clouds are spiteful and vengeance has been taken
Breaking character at play practice for a moment of pure ecstasy and humor
Catching colds, leaving an imprint of sickness and annoyance on one's face
Dodging the curious stares of ex lovers with a feeling of relief
Envious emotions towards the summer when you're left with chills and bare trees
Frozen faces in shock of the aftermath of that day back in September
Gracious arms stretched open wide by a Savior who has nothing to hide
Helplessness left on the man alone in the street with nothing to eat
Ignorance comes with the guy who thinks he knows it all (but really knows little at all)
Jokes are thrown left and right coming straight for the girl in the corner who's feeling depression
Kindness shared between two strangers hopeful that soon they'll be more than that
Lovers share a softened gaze and a touch of hands producing electricity
Moms crying for their kids first day of school, tears of joy
Nasty boys with shallow minds give over everything they have thinking they have real "love" for the night
Open-minded people uniting in the world to feel a sense of community
Pretentious celebrities showing a carefree attitude for the camera, but heartbreak behind
Quaint and quiet simple minded people read their simple books and live in a state of simple happiness
Red cheeks flushed brighter than a firework in July
Static on the radio playing really low, a tune really slow, with a sad tone
Tucked in crop tops, high waisted jeans, & converse lending a helping hand with nostalgia for the 80s
Under said phrases and over said words shouted on the rooftop with remorse and bitterness
Vertigo left her in a state of constant anxiousness
Watery eyes dried by pruned fingers in the salt water pool mixed with salt water tears
X marking the spot where she caught him with her
Yellow, stained pages and the peaceful smell of antique books
Zealousness for life shone in her eyes, almost like a musician when their fingers brush calmly and excitedly over their instrument
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
On your shoulders, slender waisted maiden,
you carried the burdens of this earth: like
Atlas of the old, you of Amazonian strength;
Yet today you sink, weighed down by
the vanishing vestige of shadows aflicker.
Shadows that consume all, engulfing nights,
harbingers dark of conflagrations rise.
Disbelief is our creed. But enough we believe
to vote them to power, our leaders we so love.
Yet in the hour of decision, we must believe
in their indisputable dishonesty.
Yes, aliens are around, Area 51 is for real,
late night appearances on Larry King live?
For the select few, sure, for a select price.
Osama did not die. In fact, exist, he never did.
Flags felled of the towers twin ? False, them false!
How belief, when Iraqs can happen?
Whither the weapons of mass delusion?
Conspiracy. In bloodlines is our interest
but not in the man who gave that blood for us.
Alas those to preach that love vested,
too are in gossip and scandal invested.
Fickle is our love, the mistletoe occupies now
the sacred space of the matronly banyan, and
the owl upside down, for the dove beloved old
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC