- Mar 19, 2001
- 2,627
- 33
projection
is a fishbone in your throat
with no bread to dislodge
the pain and suffering
no sparkling brook over
slime covered stones to
listen to serenity...
you hit me with that phrase
when I wasn't looking
suckered punched me
when I was sitting in my corner
ready to through in the towel
before the fight...cause I'm no
fighter, but, I can "debate" pretty ****
good
projection is a "matriarchalintercourser"
(or motherphucker for the challenged)
that thing can have you look at someone and
see yourself / all your ways your insecurities
your...pain
vandalize someone else with your
introspective bruises
I don't know why you got so upset
had the belly of Mount St. Helen nauseated
we were only "debating"...
and you wonder why I cheat on you so
much with my pen, why I hold her more than you
...you told me...
"Don't phuckin' touch me"
...........................................silence...
you shanked me as I stood in the
yard talking to freedom......your vile tongue
I've learned needs to be on death row...
you wonder why I stand before you
not being able to speak / nothing but a mist
of misery leaving my mouth where Love just
took the last train to find an oak tree
to be hung
.............................................silence...
"Don't Fhuckin' touch me"
you do have a way with words
I am amazed at how you can impale
my fingertips with those words
as if they are the ten that dropped the
dime on whose hands no longer
recognizes a loved one
projection is a trip...have you
looked at your hands?
where once resided and old wise woman
now resides an adolescent ignorant
cold thirty something "child"
where I once saw angels
wake up in your palms
I now see stripped empty beds
only the frames remain
where once children used to play
hopscotch and double dutch...
yellow crime scene tape now outlines
your lifelines...
where I once swore I saw the
burning bush emanate from your supple
touch I now see cotton fields full
of dead slaves....
and you castrate me your four word sword
I wish my headstone had a beginning and ending
date...because I hate choking on discarded
feelings...
Don't ****yng touch you?...I won't...
you have cut off the hands that loved you.
(c)2002 blakverb
is a fishbone in your throat
with no bread to dislodge
the pain and suffering
no sparkling brook over
slime covered stones to
listen to serenity...
you hit me with that phrase
when I wasn't looking
suckered punched me
when I was sitting in my corner
ready to through in the towel
before the fight...cause I'm no
fighter, but, I can "debate" pretty ****
good
projection is a "matriarchalintercourser"
(or motherphucker for the challenged)
that thing can have you look at someone and
see yourself / all your ways your insecurities
your...pain
vandalize someone else with your
introspective bruises
I don't know why you got so upset
had the belly of Mount St. Helen nauseated
we were only "debating"...
and you wonder why I cheat on you so
much with my pen, why I hold her more than you
...you told me...
"Don't phuckin' touch me"
...........................................silence...
you shanked me as I stood in the
yard talking to freedom......your vile tongue
I've learned needs to be on death row...
you wonder why I stand before you
not being able to speak / nothing but a mist
of misery leaving my mouth where Love just
took the last train to find an oak tree
to be hung
.............................................silence...
"Don't Fhuckin' touch me"
you do have a way with words
I am amazed at how you can impale
my fingertips with those words
as if they are the ten that dropped the
dime on whose hands no longer
recognizes a loved one
projection is a trip...have you
looked at your hands?
where once resided and old wise woman
now resides an adolescent ignorant
cold thirty something "child"
where I once saw angels
wake up in your palms
I now see stripped empty beds
only the frames remain
where once children used to play
hopscotch and double dutch...
yellow crime scene tape now outlines
your lifelines...
where I once swore I saw the
burning bush emanate from your supple
touch I now see cotton fields full
of dead slaves....
and you castrate me your four word sword
I wish my headstone had a beginning and ending
date...because I hate choking on discarded
feelings...
Don't ****yng touch you?...I won't...
you have cut off the hands that loved you.
(c)2002 blakverb
me away!!!!
/Respect
