They say women are fickle.
Ask that professorial gent:
“Please, miss, a nipple pic
before my pickle is spent?”
Too late!
Was it my trite poetry?
My less than witty prose?
Did you drown in grandiosity
garnished with philosophy?
Maybe I’ll never know.
Tag: Poetry
Men
Men speak their own language,
Subtle then suddenly coarse.
Lightening rods waiting for jolts,
hidden but always waiting to pulse.
Tumor
While he didn’t really like me, clearly,
I’ll still miss him dearly.
He whom I loved in spite of everything.
I never could discern truth from a lie.
A forked tongue and a wicked sense of humor –
too wicked, sometimes; it matasticized like a
tumor and ate me alive.
Hag
Suddenly, the myopia of my soul cleared,
and I saw:
The ugly little girl become a wretched, bitter hag.
Ancient ridicule replicated ad infinitum,
translated into a modern curse.
It never ends, but it could be worse.
Anger
How much anger can one swallow?
Hot acid fills the hollow.
Grind your teeth and pull your hair,
It’s still there.
Burning, boiling to the brim,
Galvanizing the soul within.
That is to Say…
I have a tendency to love those who care for me the least;
that is to say, love for me is out of reach.
Those I love would rather I were dead, decaying somewhere in a ditch;
that is to say, my friendship is the stench of garbage set on the curb.
Forest
I perpetually can’t see the horizon.
This forest has too many trees.
Spiders rapidly descend on their prey, discarding bloodless bodies in their wake.
I know you can’t feel fondness for me.
The birds stop singing. There’s a hawk nearby. There’s the squealing of a mouse.
I like hearing you say my name even when you’re angry.
Delta
When the Delta variant takes me in her warm embrace, phlegm filling my lungs;
Don’t pretend any of you really cared. Don’t let them put me on life support.
Let me feel myself drowning. Let me slip into sepsis, so that I know how my mother felt all those years ago.
I’ve wandered this world alone, my friends are transactions. I was not meant for normalcy. Life is meaningless.
Oscar
If God were merciful,
it would be me in your stead.
Your GED study book lays
unopened on your bed.
Your mother prays over
your body,
Your beautiful mind and soul
part from earth evermore.
Thirty-four, you won’t grow old;
It’s not fair, but life seldom is.
Comforting you gave me some
purpose, now I’m empty.
You were so close to turning your
life around from the cliff that
you strayed too close.
Say hello to my mother for me.
Why?
Why was I born this way,
to be society’s burden?
To be a blight on life,
and a disappointment
to everyone’s path I cross.
To feel like a human,
though just barely.
To love meaning well,
but it all becomes hell.
Ocdbloggergirl's Blog: OCD, Life, and Other Misunderstandings 