"whoops" poems
There she goes,
dressed in yellow
wearing a gaudy red cap.
Standing tall,
standing proud,
high on her shiny black heels.
She steps onto that lacquered white floor
As the girls around her
stifle with silent envy.
She leaves her elegant trail
everywhere she goes
when
Whoops!
She broke her little heel.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Season of sun and sand and sea,
Holiday time for you and me.
Daylight right ‘til ten o’clock,
Don’t forget to wear sun-block.
Sitting idly reading Keats,
Watching kids with buckets and spades;
Sparrows with their frantic tweets,
Flying high above the glades.
Oh it’s great to be so free,
No more snow or ice for me.
Even mugginess is okay,
So long as it’s warm throughout the day.
Swimming in that so cool pool,
Sure beats sweating back in school.
Summer is my favourite month,
Whoops my rhyme-scheme just went Whoomph!
Nothing rhymes with month you know,
But let’s forget about that snow.
Let’s laze instead on lawn or beach,
And keep a beer within our reach.
Paul Butters
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Poor dolphin
with no fin
finn the human
come to rescue him
attaches new fins
now he can swim
go back to africa
whoops wrong poem
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
[Intro: Honey *******
You ******* ******* stink
Go take a ******* shower
Schwag. Asian *******
[Verse 1: Honey *******
****** I ain't got time for a stupid broad
Cause bro I'm 'bout to beat a ***** and probably lose my job
**** I'm a bubble
Listen, ***** I tell you cool it off
Cause acting smart'll get you deaded
***** I rule the spot
Now, homie, I ain't ******* down to catch a charge, bro
Now her body found the same place she had parked, bro. (Whoops! [x3])
I forgot my ******* ride for me
Cause these ******* that drive for me
Are these ******* flying for free
I gain mine. There's a difference. You remember that
Cause I'm always hungry for the **** that I ain't never had
This here is baby food and be all like, ***** **** a snack! "
See ****** who said I'm crap is asking me to hit 'em back
***** **** that!
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 2: Honey *******
Oh, here I go. There they go in this here game again
Now these ******* praying they gon' never hear my name again
But look, I'm a stay around even although they acting like I can't
I don't sleep at all cause it'll always be my time again
That means I work hard, homie. I don't play around, dawg
Better cut this ******** or your face'll meet the ground, dawg
But after all, it's for the haters and the groupies, though
Find me at the studio
The smart ***** with a stupid flow
**** delivery. Got fans who in the dance
Now my enemies got plans
They just searching for a chance
**** friends cause I'm married to the music
***** cause I gained the world and die before I lose it
So cool it
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
[Verse 3: Tyga]
***** back, back. Why your *** so flat?
Tell your best friend I want that
I don't pretend, ***** and I don't act
Why you all up in my chat?
Telling people that you know him
If I lend you all on my back
Criss-cross, you wiggedy-wack! (Aghh!)
Duplicating my racks
Introduce you to my life
Yeah, my gold heavy metal
You can't rock out on my level
Yeah, yeah. That's a red Ferarri
And I'm dancing with the devil
***** testing me, you get answers
**** a ***** quick fast, like cancer. (Aghh!)
(Well, well) Make a ***** rubbin money on my **** till it swell, swell
And ya money, money shorter than a elf, elf
And I keep cool J's like LL
(Hell yeah) I don; t wanna start nuttin' ***** lemme finish
All in a ***** net ***** mouth like a dentist
(Dennis) Rodman. Come on, come on
***** is you with it, with it?
Cause I ain't
[Hook x2: Honey *******
Now, I ain't got time for ********
If I ain't getting mine, then that's ********
Why you all up in my face with this ********
Ew. ***** you smell like ********
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
July 4th is a Holiday filled with celebration,
Complete with BBQs and Fireworks
And exclamations of "Happy Independence day"
But people seem to fail to add the asterisk at the end
The hidden meaning, the fine print, the text between the lines if you will.
Because July 4th is not everyones's independence day.
July 4th only signifies the independence of a particular group of people
A group of people who fought for their freedom, but didn't allow it in their own back yards.
When these people were out celebrating their independence, my ancestors, my family, where in fields, working, in houses trying to stay alive
My women trying to stay away from their masters ****** them-
Whoops, sorry, I meant "Celebrating."
So what reason do I have to call July 4th my independence day?
If anything, my independence day is December 16th, the ratification of the 13th amendment
Or Juneteenth
Or January 1st, the day that the emancipation proclamation was ratified.
So while everyone else is celebrating the New Year, I think about what else that day has brought
Brought about the freedom of a people, my people.
Made them citizens, made them real, made them free.
Well, kinda free.
We've come so far.
And of course, I am not trying to blame white people today for what happened in the past, they should not be held accountable for the actions of the people from whom they've descended
But instead I want my black brothers and sisters to think, to remember, where we are coming from.
So yes, I hope everyone has a happy independence day*
Just keep in mind that it's not mine.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 5:02 PM UTC
warthogs for men singing amen
i ink my scars with a ball point pen
buffalo grass and ******
they want *** but won't die
i want *** but it's not me
they tell me that I'm pretty
i smoke **** in a blazing forest
i feel as rubbery as a curious tourist
and plenty of coke goes in my nose
i bleed headaches, when it rains it snows
i'm dreaming of a white christmas, i suppose
with my squad when i don't want to feel alone
i make lies but can't hide like room raiders
i cut up coke for all my haters
with a side of oxy
tells me that I'm foxy
right before he knocks me
my brain goes on high alert
i can taste my stomach
because cake was yesterday's desert
i say that we're proxies
i take the red pill
some like oxys
some like bikini ****
some nights aren't so chill
some brains are mentally ill
but he doesn't like to feel, y'feel
tell me if you want a
*** flavored banana
a broken heart from havana
or to drink my coke flavored blood
dragging me through the mud
whoops
son of sam
touch my **** like we're not fam
drug me if you want to slam
my head off the coffee table
i'll choke on fear until i'm not stable
i pretend i'm in a fable
this can't be real
does he not feel
break it off and shove it down my throat
cut me into pieces
make a blood moat
oak splinters suffered through winters in my spine
find you in jail and you ask if i'm fine
i break off rhymes like i break out grams
shaking because of a spiked promise
i wish i wasn't here
i wish i wasn't here
sham in the garden of clouds. when you 'fuck' you want people around
when i cry, you hear no sound
buffalo grass and ******
they **** off but ask why
my box in their face
i don't want to be in this place
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
Wasting my life.
Cause my time is so precious, ha!
Walking through my room,
the stench actually slows progress.
You feel it on your skin,
it thickens the air, increases drag.
They squirm on the floor.
I wipe them off my hands and stomach.
They might have had dreams, aspirations.
How ridiculous they’re just ejaculations.
I posses a value for life. But my children here.
I don’t feel anything for them, or without them.
Time ***** by.
Instinct, greed and something else win again.
This addiction doesn’t leave track marks,
***** spoons, or empty lighters.
But it does leave a stench, and little time.
It’s a **** I can’t get rid of. Literally.
It’s attached to me, I use it everyday in one way.
But **** it.
Whoops, phrasing...
I mean ***** it, school is in like 6 hours.
I feel relieved in one way. Now I have it onboard.
A nice big hit, of dopamine. Instantly.
Feb 20, 2020
Feb 20, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
On my garden lawn,
A croquet field of red *****
Whoops without mallet.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
I know some folks
Some new most old
Keeping logs swirling
It’s a balancing act
Lots of plates spinning
Whoops! Stretch right!
***** fall
Plates crash
Notes fall flat
Oh! Look over there!
Thank you, magicians!
TAH-DAH!
Take a bow,
Sis, bro, boom!
You got the room!
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 4:57 AM UTC
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now
“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded
Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!
…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....
How could we have forgotten?
“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”
We laugh
and let the tape go....
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
You were a friend to the end but the urge to
do it finally closed myeyes, when I opened
them yourlife had ebbed away. Just silence
which cleansed the screams away.
I knew what I had to do, I had thetools ready
to do those unspeakable things to you, but never
worry your not here any more just a cadaver
that will soon be in pieces all over my floor.
I use my knife cut you from throat to your *******
whoops I just chopped of your meat and veg ****
it you don't need them any more. I play with
your ribs blood once warm now cold in my hands.
I think of a xylophone as I tap the knifes, dull noises
but they sound like musical notes, I smirk and laugh
a bit thinking of what you would think, as I play
musical notes down on your ribs and laugh some more.
I take your heart, it slips on to the floor, ok mate it
slipped from my hands, don't look like that you don't
need it anymore. I unravel your intestines as they unravel
over the floor, reminds me of spaghetti just needs meat *****
I have played enough, parts of you on me, I tasted part
of your liver like Hannibal lecture, I wish I could tell you
this but it tastes like horse.
I cut patches from your back, parchment a canvas of
skin so I draw, blood is my paint as I draw a skull,
then a dove you are free like the bird, no pain or
fear any more.
I feel no regret, you were a friend, but I use your
blood for hand print pictures on my wall as I
put it on my face on my chest. I write I am the killer
and now I am complete the circle of life is complete
as I get the knife and move it across then I paint
with my blood now across the walls.
I feel tired, but I am in a red sea of peace the room
once white now red is painted on the walls. I think
of what I have done, I cant help who I am no one could
have changed me I've done what I have done I'm at
peace now slumped on the floor.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
I'm just gunna
hula-hoop
right through
your
loop
hole.
I'm dating
Debbie Downer
but I'm bi-curious
for Positive Paul.
I'm hungry.
I'm pissy.
Debbie, get back to
Betty.
& Bake me a cake.
I'll go hang out
with
Paul and his country ****
Whoops,
I mean
Crock.
You can just keep bitchin'
in the kitchen.
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
It's housework time again,
Should I hit the gin?
Time to vac.,
More dust in the sack,
Whoops, missed a bit,
This vac gives me the blip,
Now it's time for teacups,
Job done, ****** it up!
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
Eyes meet
In the corner coffee stall
Flint and tinder
All this time
Hello there!
Scrambling
Words all tumble
Scintillating
Knocking tables
Metal legs airborne
Clawing madly
Un-crisping collars
Found you
On the garnet cushions
Back to life
Imagination spinning
Staring at me
Whoops
Having daydreams
Once again.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:39 AM UTC
Brothers!
And some sisters too...
It’s time!
It’s time to step forward
And proclaim to the people
We love ***
We adore ***
Don’t be offended
It’s just a compliment...
I’m an *** man
That’s who I am
***** shorts are like Spidey Senses
Yoga Pants are letting people know what you haved
Sundress Season makes me incoherent
I don’t give a ****
So many, so little time
If you got a big one, you're considered a dime
I’m not a rapper
But I can rhyme
Some call me perverted
I call me observant
Is that a big crime?
When I stand behind her
And she grinds on me at the time
Don’t trip
Y’all do it too
Some chicks act like it’s a big taboo
It’s really not
It's because you’re hot
Whoops
I forgot, they get told that nonstop
But that *** though
Make it bounce
I want to tap it
So juicy
So bubbly
So yummy
On top of that, literally she’s a beauty.
Put your hands up like Billy Gunn
If you’re like me
It’s time
To step forward and say
I am an *** man
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
Self-confident, you say, is what I need to be,
But it's what that caused this catastrophe.
Open you're eyes, tell me what you see,
Whoops, you messed up, look what you did to me.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 5:58 AM UTC
Let me introduce myself,
I’m Paul B.
P to the A to the U to the L to the B.
You say Paul,
I say B.
You say Paul,
I say…
I used to teach English, try to inspire.
Least you can say is, I was a trier.
Love this rapping: it gets my feet tapping,
Even though I ought to be napping.
I write poems like a word ejector,
Keep away you Grammar Inspector!
Jay-Z writes in iambic pentameters,
Making out he’s got no parameters.
Honey G just copies off him,
Oh my God she really is dim.
Does her rap like Barbara Windsor,
Do you remember Needles and Pins-ah?
Me I’m copying off them both,
Though it’s only for a laugh.
Whoops a daisy that don’t quite rhyme,
Another case of Butters Rhyme Crime.
Rap is ******* I often say,
Though it rhymes the poetic way.
That leaves me with one thing to say:
You say Paul,
I say…
Paul Butters
© PB 17\10\2016.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Hashtag:weirddreams
In a dream I looked upon a world like this;
The future was here. It was today. It was now and
the wings on birds had malted, and
the atmosphere was spent.
Spent, because currency had proven
worthless.
Hashtag:firstworldprobs
(piles
on top of
piles of washingtonsjeffersonsandgrants now sat
stagnant, Hashtag:getmoney
devalued over time by the American glutton who had paved our roads with imported plastic,
cheap polymers to build empires quickly, since we were so young with so little history so little culture and so little ritual. Hashtag:omgsoboring.
We played catch-up
by simply investing very little effort,
and paying very little respect,
With expectations of getting really *******
Big). Hashtag:sorrynotsorry
Which didn’t end up working. Hashtag:whoops
And so then we just burned up all that money, quite literally, ignited by the last few drops of oil we could manage to squeeze from Earth’s stones.
And its smoke, smelling faintly of our forefathers’ intentions, turned the turbines for our televisions and deep fryers while we sat and felt ourselves getting smaller and smaller.
Then I woke up, and realized it was only a dream.
Hashtag:
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
WIMBLEDON COMMON
Wimbledon common
Was always the place to go,
Catching the train from Streatham
The family all aglow,
Sandwiches in a paper bag
Thermos in a sack,
Plastic sandels and tennis racket
Not forgetting the cricket bat.
Everyone was skippy
The sun high in the sky,
Dad had his umbrella
But the rain was shy,
Jumping from the platform
Down a row of steps,
Brother took a tumble
And that was that.
Plasters in a pocket
All was mended soon,
Finally recovered
Felt over the moon,
Reached the grassy stretches
Whoops mind the dogs,
Come away from the lovers
They're out for a jog.
Find a shiny tree trunk
Horizontal on the ground,
Four happy people
Tuck in to raspberry jam,
Now for the thermos
Plastic cups ahead,
Here come the wasps
To eat our jam and bread.
Later penguin biscuits
And a trip behind the bin,
Dad puts out the wickets
Let's see who wins,
After a quiet session
Brother looses his cool,
Slings the bat skyward
You should see it go,
Mother looked upwards
Covering her head,
Just managed to miss it
Landing on the hedge.
I went off walking
To gather pretty flowers,
Dad hid under the paper
We had a quiet hour,
Clouds gathering slowly
The sun going down,
What a lovely day in the country
We're now homeward bound.
In memory and gratitude to my lovely mum and dad
Grace and Eric Ayton- Robinson who always did their best.
Love Mary **
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
the spiky pavement under our toes
running aroind like no one knows
our whoops and shouts are getting violent
but our true feelings may always stay silent
you're thinking only of getting to bed
but i look at the stars as you run ahead
they hold secrets we'll never see
and wishes and loves we hope can be
i bring my mind down to look at you
and find my feelings all askew
for you see, my loyal, beautiful friend
im falling in love all over again
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 9:57 PM UTC
I seem to have slipped,
My mind has missed a beat,
For what happened today,
Was quite a simple feat.
The odd pairs of fandoms
Are not spoken of, at best
Alas, I love one of them,
But should have given it a rest.
The pair went into my grade,
A short story that I wrote.
It was all nice and dandy,
Until I almost had a stroke.
My teacher saw my ship,
And looked at my confusedly.
All I knew to do,
Was apologize profusely.
She didn't quite understand it,
But grade still turned out well.
Ah well, it's not horrible,
But class may now be hell.
If you ship an odd couple,
Do not let it show,
Because fandom and reality are quite different,
Trust me--I should know.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
The Story of Gypsy of Wind
dust has dissipated
When it rained
Gypsy sang
With his guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
The last farewell song ...
As he crosses the Earth
Without thinking of a terminal to reach
...
A fugitive from modernity.
From every paved road ..
Of all the twinkling constellations ..
From the noise of cities ..
From the gloom of government buildings.
The gypsy diverges,
Evading sandy roads.
He meets the boys of the villages ..
He sings and they dance..
He passes near the peasant women with red hair covers.
He plays love tunes for them.
Until their cheeks flush ...
He meets the shepherds ... and avoids them ...
he receives the wide plains
With bright eyes
And on his back
He hung up his guitar, which he inherited from his father.
.....
The gypsy meets the girl of his dreams.
But he leaves her to continue trekking.
Gypsy knows no boundaries ..
He does not know what warm rooms mean.
He does not know what daily work means.
He does not know what school means ..
Because he does not want to learn ..
Rather, he should live on the road.
....
The gypsy has no identity papers.
But he does not know what the meaning of stained papers and seals.
The gypsy does not know power ..
when he meets the mayor of the village
he Whoops:
Why do they obey you when they are free ..
The gypsy knows no hunger ..
Because he eats anything in nature.
Flowers and butterflies ..
Rivers mud ...
Then he pulls his guitar from his back.
And he goes on trekking
He plays a song that tells about a dream
With the warmth of a beautiful woman's chest.
Gypsy travels after the spring.
as if he tied with a rope..
He does not like winter ..
He does not like summer ..
He does not like autumn ..
Like birds in the sky ..
Gipsy follows the scent of silt and nectar.
He points with his finger to the distant horizon:
- It rained there..
He plays a rain song ...
.....
What do you have, gypsy?
The bar girl asks him
In transit hours standing
He says: What do you mean by the word "you have"?
The gypsy has nothing ..
Because he has everything.
He has his freedom ..
A girl spends a night with him
Then she expels him from her arms in the morning
So he takes up his guitar
And he sings in tears over his broken heart.
Passing through plains and mountains ..
To where he does not know
....
Truck drivers meet him
They offer to get him to where he wants..
But he refuses ..
He doesn't want to miss a moment without being in the heart of nature ...
Sings
Consuming time with his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who does not know him ...
But what his mother told him before her death
when they were traveling on the way ..
He buries her ..
And he prays for her soul..
Without knowing which god he is praying to..
He smiles ..
And he goes on its eternal journey
.....
When crossing forests..
He is surrounded by hyenas.
He pulls his guitar and sings.
The hyenas watched him in amazement.
they remain amazed as they snaps his flesh..
And he is still singing
Playing his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who never knew him ..
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 2:06 PM UTC
sometimes I think
there might not be a tomorrow
so my time can't be wasted in any established institution.
whoops, there I go, wasting.
whoops, there goes the future.
band together,weird brothers.
a half assed attempt from one of us equates to a hundred ten percent from one of the others.
but what difference would it make?
there's like, a hundred million of them &
only one of me.
we're already snuffed out by the numbers.
so we throw ourselves off track; it's some what hypocritical - but hey -
at least we're following our hearts
or whatever *****
we think is the most vital.
simple existence is the biggest shame.
for the love of god.
you'll rot if you stay for the spindle,
drilling yer spiel & teething on the tiers, stagnating in the famous cesspools of shalott.
settle in, ferment to liquidity.
Imma just watch yall
waiting for the day
your stocking feet curl up &
die beneath the mortgage,
leaving the zirconia slippers
of a dream seeing red.
be clean
be neat
be nice
be right
be alive
& smile
but not too much.
that's the tell to tell em
something's up,
the specimen are not disrupted
or adapting to challenge
of being ******
with these conditions.
they appear to be happy.
too happy.
something's missing.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
To be a woman:
To be a woman is to bleed.
From between our legs, as young as nine, when the only worry in our young minds should be about scraped knees from riding bikes and scooters, the visceral meaning of womanhood begins to leak through the soft cotton amour of childhood.
The impending doom of what could be warded off by a child's imagination has cracked and no longer can be repaired.
This is the fate of a woman.
From that day we bleed.
Shoving gauze of soft smiles and politeness into bullet holes bore into our bodies by men.
Anything to stop the bleeding and remain a fragment of the person we once were.
We’re blithe in the presence of grown men that become aroused to the notion of humiliating us.
We try to feign ignorance and keep a straight face in times of turbulence to maintain modesty.
Our nails embedded into our palms, we bleed.
And a storm has formed.
Through the storm we seek the same refugee we watched our mothers seek. Always thinking that the outcome will be different.
This one is not the same.
We’re not our mothers.
Our love is different.
It’s respected.
It’s mutual…
as long as you’re the one doing the laundry and the cooking and the cleaning and you pay your half and you look after the child that you nearly bled out for.
Nurturing, tending, cooking and cleaning and ‘whoops’ watch the knife…
bleeding.
Always bleeding.
It’s equal love though, isn’t it?
It’s what you wanted, right?
When you bore two children and you’re raising three, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you bled for.
That’s what you bled for?
Who has he bled for?
He walks into the kitchen, boots scuffing the linoleum on the way.
Dumping the scrapped leftovers of love you gave him in the early out of the morning into the trash and tossing the containers into the sink.
He pats the heads of the people he pretends make him whole and goes to the shower to rinse off the 10 hour shift of hard labor that didn't involve his family.
You don’t expect a kiss at this point because you learned that asking for what you deserve could come with a broken orbital socket.
So you let your heart bleed.
You bleed it into your kids.
You let them know that they are loved.
You pretend that everything is okay.
You go to work, you come home, you bleed and you bleed and you bleed.
Hopeful that your daughter doesn’t see.
Mar 8, 2025
Mar 8, 2025 at 6:27 PM UTC