Some part of him tore its robes,
some other part stitched them
together.
Don't say he is awkwardly made
he had to get dressed in the dark.
He eats boneless words, stays inside himself
painting eyes on closed shells.
It is another torrential morning
that he must plunged through.
The world is stampeding over him
and he trembles under its heavy hooves.
Today or tomorrow
his head will crack open,
a pustule of self-hatred erupt,
and a slavering beast will emerge
to gun down what he cannot love.
Categories:
pustule, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Is still the game in town.
Whether you recognize it or not,
It makes no difference.
Whether winky frown, hashtag or Kermit meme
has taken rot of your existence.
The world is changing, and at breakneck speed.
The elements are changing.
With impending ( trending! ) persistence.
The human element gravitating to self and
apathy, lust and greed.
The rest of them burning, disappearing,
corroding or falling into the sea.
I know this must be a preachy bummer.
A pulsating pustule, a sundowner to summer.
But, integrity matters.
It matters more than some may think.
Categories:
pustule, absence,
Form: Free verse
Sweet as an apple
Pious as a Bible
Resolving battle
TOI is a supple.
Anything brittle
Or be it subtle
It make it nuzzle
TOI is a supple.
It is like a ripple
Increasing wheedle
Clearing baffle
TOI is a supple.
Those who toddle
Should read Title
Ads may be ignoble
But TOI is a supple.
Those who whistle
Or go as turtle
Or in a debacle;
TOI is a supple.
To remove pustule
TOI is best Tool
Makes mind fertile
TOI is a supple.
Categories:
pustule, inspirational,
Form: Monorhyme
Have you ever eaten an apple
By sitting on a speedy bicycle?
Difficult? Sympathy is like sizzle
Shouts when not got in coddle;
Smiles if given in time subtle.
Shrewd! With poor does giggle
With rich it does struggle.
How can I, Poor Soul, entitle
Sympathy with me in puddle
Of sadness which hardly ignoble?
My friend, Hardik, never finagle
Stood by shoulders to face unstable
Time, with me, removing a pustule.
Sympathy can’t be won at a raffle.
They’re virtues divine which ripple
With love of God even in middle
Of sufferings, and appear in bubble
Lasts for few moments in swaddle.
Sympathy, moves slowly like turtle
But reaches surely like Rakesh recycle.
Hardik or Rakesh will never diddle
You in need, let it be Prafulla baffle.
I found sympathy for peons little
Swanking abound in both to fiddle
Sonorously growing quadruple.
Categories:
pustule, sympathy,
Form: Monorhyme
When you in problems brittle
None come to assist a little,
You feel lonely, deserted beadle.
Let it be Newton or Aristotle
None can devise pain of rustle
One undergoes when rattle
By problems and no hope ripple.
But the world is not ignoble;
People like Hardik and Rakesh able
Come to help needy on bicycle
And go without pride for supple.
See Geeta, Koran, Jina or Bible
You find many such people cackle
The vice importance of boodle
And about people craving like turtle
Behind mild money, a bad pustule.
So friends, let us all unshackle
Flattery, selfishness and battle
And be sympathetic, virtue fertile.
Categories:
pustule, sympathy,
Form: Monorhyme
I am just a pustule on the face of planet Earth,
wasting air and taking space since the sad day of my birth.
All my predecessors have by their own hands died,
insanity and hopelessness drew them to suicide.
Now my daughter wrestles with the demons of her kin,
living life daily, uncomfortable in her skin.
I'll not be missed when I am gone; I've left no real impression,
and daily life will just go on, steeped in deep depression.
©Danielle White
Categories:
pustule, angst, death, depression, familylife,
Form: Rhyme
Unclasped my pearl necklace
and loosened my long, straight hair,
opened the buttons of my dress and let it fall,
took off my lingerie,
tearing the delicate silk,
and left me naked.
After that, with his finger-scalpel,
he sliced into my skin,
as though I were meat.
He put his surgeon hands
into my entrails and
ripped out my guts,
my ordinary cells
and all the primary ones.
All of the healthy blood,
all of the useless blood,
spurted from me.
He tore into what was healthy,
and into what was infected,
every pustule.
With eyes like rays
of laser light,
he pulled away my organs
and boned me.
I lay down
next to my clothes
and to what was taken
with the wisdom
of a firm and sharp lancet.
From my lurid nudity
I begged him to possess me,
moaning into spasms,
and when he broke through my soul,
what a fantastic ******!
Patricia Evans
Categories:
pustule, allegory, happiness, life, love,
Form: Free verse
I don’t come very often anymore
to the edge of this rancid waste dump
to pick at the scars
and bleed anew . . .
To stand and welcome it all
in its abscessed pustule
as plump as summer milkweed
ready to be lanced.
I hold the images in my heart
and await the rolling thunder
to bring blessed relief
with loosed blood and infection.
My penance.
Categories:
pustule, forgiveness, loss, love, sad,
Form: Free verse