A few short poems
Haven't written poetry in forever, so here's my latest shots in the dark. "Revealing" is semi-autobiographical, "Ink Stain" inspired by Sex Pistols (for some odd reason), "Coca Cola..." is odd, & "Mercy" is pretty much self-explanatory.
Revealing
She complained about the small things
And she dressed to her liking,
Calling it original, when all she was doing
Was hiding behind a cool face.
She didn’t know the reality
Of the world
The people touched her only moderately so,
And she’d wake up the next day feeling the same.
Her palms itched to hold, to grasp
Something solid
Or something to infuse meaning into
But she was never happy with the results.
It was a downcast day, with gloomy clouds
And thunderous singing
She remembers it like the frost on trees
In late December.
Here where she dropped her pen
Her parchment of paper and shed her frilly clothes,
Here beside the swing amidst the itchy grass,
She peeled back the layers and slept.
Ink Stain
He came home that night
To the trashed hotel room
The door left ajar
And found the bloody prints on the walls.
Pen, stabbed, jabbed,
Forced into a vein, an artery
And fuck
Fuck was all he could think.
The creases in his palms were red
Like intricate threads of spun silk
But not his palms, the other man’s,
The webbing between fingers raw and open.
It wasn’t him
He was glad that it wasn’t him
Because he had a life to live
And this poor thing was already gone.
He mourned though
And brought flowers to the funeral
Where purple lilies and pink blossoms
Were littered across the grave.
Coca Cola Franchise
I don’t believe in consuming products
That are tasteless and tacky and bad for your health,
And I don’t like the feeling of your teeth rotting out
Because of excessive soda consummation.
I don’t like the effect of the caffeine
My body too used to it now to trigger anything
Or the aftertaste of malt and decay lingering,
I don’t like any of it.
But I am like an addict starving
Craving for the routine of the beverage
The coke in Cola
That has raised me since I was old enough to drink.
Mercy
She came to me today
Calling me a fake and a liar and sobbing
Like her cradle had just been robbed,
With reed thin wrists and bone white knuckles
She begged on two knees
And told me she wanted out.
I pushed her back down
Her face pinned to the carpet with my foot
And reminded her what was left,
That the world held nothing
And the only thing I was postponing
Was her death.
Revealing
She complained about the small things
And she dressed to her liking,
Calling it original, when all she was doing
Was hiding behind a cool face.
She didn’t know the reality
Of the world
The people touched her only moderately so,
And she’d wake up the next day feeling the same.
Her palms itched to hold, to grasp
Something solid
Or something to infuse meaning into
But she was never happy with the results.
It was a downcast day, with gloomy clouds
And thunderous singing
She remembers it like the frost on trees
In late December.
Here where she dropped her pen
Her parchment of paper and shed her frilly clothes,
Here beside the swing amidst the itchy grass,
She peeled back the layers and slept.
Ink Stain
He came home that night
To the trashed hotel room
The door left ajar
And found the bloody prints on the walls.
Pen, stabbed, jabbed,
Forced into a vein, an artery
And fuck
Fuck was all he could think.
The creases in his palms were red
Like intricate threads of spun silk
But not his palms, the other man’s,
The webbing between fingers raw and open.
It wasn’t him
He was glad that it wasn’t him
Because he had a life to live
And this poor thing was already gone.
He mourned though
And brought flowers to the funeral
Where purple lilies and pink blossoms
Were littered across the grave.
Coca Cola Franchise
I don’t believe in consuming products
That are tasteless and tacky and bad for your health,
And I don’t like the feeling of your teeth rotting out
Because of excessive soda consummation.
I don’t like the effect of the caffeine
My body too used to it now to trigger anything
Or the aftertaste of malt and decay lingering,
I don’t like any of it.
But I am like an addict starving
Craving for the routine of the beverage
The coke in Cola
That has raised me since I was old enough to drink.
Mercy
She came to me today
Calling me a fake and a liar and sobbing
Like her cradle had just been robbed,
With reed thin wrists and bone white knuckles
She begged on two knees
And told me she wanted out.
I pushed her back down
Her face pinned to the carpet with my foot
And reminded her what was left,
That the world held nothing
And the only thing I was postponing
Was her death.