Life's loveless hand scraped me
Blood poured on dry cement
The sun heated it up
Boiling on the ground
But a stain remains there
And a scar on my skin
A reminder of then
A warning for later
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them,
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him naked,
eyes closed while she masturbates.
She wants him to watch her.
She's deathly frightened people will overhear.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking
holding hands until closing time.
One day her bedsit is empty,
she has gone, leaving no note.
On the other side of the city
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
making marriage vows
forever they declared
their love would last
until they scratched to death
their seven-year itch
Deep
It's almost a hollow pain when my thoughts meet
I feel it every time I think about everything
Like the world is sitting on my back
The universe just keeps stacking new problems and adding new hurdles to my already burdened path
I don't know how much longer I want to go on
Like the world is a record that just spins, but mine has so many scratches it just keeps replaying the same old song
I'm so tired of being tired of trying to deal with it and sing along
Trying to remove scratches with sandpaper patches
But it just makes this record of living more tragic
just keeps going and going and going until
The vinyl is worn down, and the words eventually are hard to make out
But it just keeps saying the same damn thing
I'm sure I'm overwhelmed by it, by now
I've been taking advice, and I'm working on changing the song
I even wrote new lyrics to try and replace the old ones
It's been challenging, to say the least
The fact that my world still weighs so heavily on me
I wonder if I'm actually getting better a little at the very least
Or if pure delusion is just blinding me
Skip
Repeat
An email came from our hotel –
We’ve scratched your reservation.
We weren’t that surprised and took
The news with resignation.
The hurricane wreaked havoc there
And with the loss of power,
The chance of new accommodations
Worsened by the hour.
The canceling of flights came next,
A challenge while you’re driving,
But after much frustration,
Credits soon will be arriving.
We’ll unreserve the rental car
And once we get that cracking,
The only thing remaining is
Unfolding and unpacking.
Nope,
not ever;
You can’t dress up cats;
Schemers never need a mask;
Tail,
Eyes,
always wearing a disguise;
Fiendish grin warns you
costumes get
scratched.
I was
burning
with curiosity,
and wondered
how it would be possible
and what would be used
to scratch one’s soul;
It seemed unlikely to me
when I was young,
But one day I was about to learn
they were never the sharp nails of a lady,
nor the sharp teeth of those who get greedy
but sharp tongues of those who are green with envy
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them;
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him
naked, eyes closed while they both masturbate.
She wants him to watch her.
She's frightened people will overhear.
This is all the sex she needs; she tells him.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking,
holding hands until closing time.
She becomes a missing person.
He scans headlines, obituary columns,
classified ads.
Her parents live in Surrey,
that's all he knows.
On the other side of the city,
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
He stops looking for her.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
He stops smoking;
remembers the silence
once shared.
she scratched my soul, the girl from Valencia,
I lost my way,agreeing to share her silk-mesh
thighs, to "double-man the tiller,"
so to speak,
which was OK...for a time,
then our "arrangement" became too much to bear,
some nights I thought I could smell him, his thick
beard, his linen shirt, his poetry:
so I cast her off: oh the pain, the terrible pain,
at seeing her drown in her own blood and his sperm
and I never did that "open" thing again
I thought I would take a chance the other night.
The move I made turned out to be right.
I scratched the silver coating off the ticket I bought.
Lo and behold, see the winning combination I caught!
I feel like going on a shopping spree.
Hello lottery agent, show me the money!
Inspired by another member's poem
Expression is being who you want to be
Not perpetrating someone you claim to be for ME
Trying to hold me hostage with your lies…
Thinking because you were between my thighs that you got me hook lined and sinked….
Getting me all vexed, tensed and unsure of my own emotional rationalization
Emotionally retarded LITTLE MAN you are….
Hiding in your private world filled with
DECEPTION, CAMOUFLAGE and over used ADJECTIVES….
I understand why you were drawn
To my VOLUPTUOUS, SEXUAL, SPIRITUAL ENERGY
You wanted to experience what is
REAL
TRUE
PURE
You had your chance
You speaking in parables, emotionally crippled, insecure MAN…..
I can’t believe I let you get into my head let alone my BED….
But you could never penetrate my spiritual man…
I was before you CAME….
I will always BE the SAME….
G.O.P
GODS….
ORIGINAL….
PROPERTY
SCRATCHED BUT NEVER BROKEN
I know the itch that can't be scratched
The world is growing way too fast.
We all are at battle with peace of mind
Alas, it's the itch that can't be scratched.
I know the itch that can't be scratched
These wars are growing hard, and fast.
Soon the world will be one dead blob of mass-
Alas! It's the itch that can't be scratched.
Like an itch halfway down your back,
unreachable, itching to be
furiously scratched,
you wish you could just peel off your shirt,
lean hard against the edge
of an oaken cabinet
and rub any thought of her finally off
and away from your hopelessly
infatuated mind;
strange, but you seem to have taken
to liking the soothing pain
of the scratch,
now, you find yourself gyrating, drooling
at the slightest thought
of a wooden touch !
His hopes for the race,
Rode in the saddle of Pride.
The horse fell down.
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