twisted cracked lips
spew raspy words
like hot sour vomit
children's tears ooze
through the mud caked on their cheeks
like an ant has crawled there
high pitched giggles
from girls long since grown
echo in the streets
as the duct tape girl listens
soggy bread sits on broken plates in abandoned kitchens
gnarled hands lift knitting needles
poking them in and out of a garment
made of coarse yarn
angry music blasts
from the broken down radio
on the staticky station
not staticky enough to hide the screaming guitars
dust covers old books
sitting silently on creaking shelves
untouched
as the duct tape girl looks on
ants parade around empty rooms
the mattress sits limply in the middle of the floor
forgotten letters hide in their envelopes
a broken necklace tossed in a corner
an old magazine on an old desk,
its wrinkled pages stuck together
a pencil with a broken point rests next to the mattress
water seeps through the ceiling
forming a puddle on the floor
as the duct tape girl runs away
I walk through the lonely dreams
Nothing is just what it seems
Black is white and day is night
One thing's real without appeal
She's there in every dream I had.
No matter what, good or bad.
But suddenly, there is no good.
Only for happiness, if it would!
But there is no happiness.
I see her laughing, see her crying.
See her grinning, see her sighing.
She's gone away, she won't come back.
I feel a space, I feel a lack.
When I wake up from a dream
I reach for her but though it seemed
That she was there, she is not
Nothing but an empty spot
I go straight through my usual day
Pushing all those tears away
But when I get home late at night
I can't keep back my tearful fright.
When her ghost comes back to haunt me
It will hurt me, it will daunt me
I dread her visit with much fear
As the day is drawing near
The door creaks open loud and sure
I jump up, I know it's her
She meets me in the downstairs hall
Her angry face says it all.
I understand my life is done
As I see she has a gun.
A word about Jennifer- I wrote that poem when I was twelve. The only reason it's on my site at all is to placate my sister, who insists it's the best poem I've ever written. If it is.. well, let's just hope it isn't.
Ears soft, silky.
Burning.
Flames around them.
Black, singed, ashes.
Long tail.
Used to wag.
Thump.
Adorable.
Happy.
Laughter.
Burning.
Flames around it.
Black, singed, ashes.
Long fur.
Golden, living, warm.
Thick.
Bury your fingers in it.
Burning.
Flames around it.
Black, singed, ashes.
Three legs.
Hops.
Cute.
Giggle.
Watch.
Hug.
Burning.
Flames around them.
Black, singed, ashes.
Eyes.
Sad, adorable.
Loving, trusting.
Nose... brown...
Burning.
Flames around them.
Black, singed, ashes.
And gone.
Stuck-together pages of a good book.
-slide your finger between them gently to separate
A dog rolling around in the dewy wet morning grass.
Tangled hair falling on freckled shoulders.
You are a lost mitten,
frozen and abandoned on the dark street.
Scissors snapping as they work through cloth.
A half-used tube of ChapStick.
Porcelain flowers on the side of my mother's china.
Damp reeds in a mosquito-ridden marsh.
You are the yawning tiger cub,
with her her rough tongue poking over sharp teeth.
A curly ribbon binding a package.
Sleek-looking sunglasses pushed hastily into soft hair.
A sand-filled plastic bucket with a broken handle.
A chipped refrigerator magnet.
You are the smooth, gray rock that just fits in my hand.
Punk rock songs blasting on the car stereo,
windows down fill the world with the soudn.
A rusty tricycle with a bell that still works.
The layer of gray clouds that hides the sky.
You are the white in my knuckles.
You are the glimmer of the rainbow,
-the fleeting glimpse.
The vaguely recalled taste of yesterday's meals.
You are the sneaker in the middle of the floor.
The teddy bear lying next to the unmade bed.
The neat signature of the thirteen yer old girl.
-she hasn't learn to scrawl her name yet.
The vibration of the car as my hands rest on the steering wheel.