She makes his sandwich again
With fingers that ache in time
To the rhythm of expected pain.
We watch our treasured one
Labor under quaint old ways
Aimed no less sure than a sniper’s gun.
He buries her beneath his neglect,
Controlling the ticking of her life
In the chokehold of his disrespect.
We live for the wit he no longer sees.
We soar on the laughter he no longer inspires,
As we beg her to unbend her kness.
Stand tall, our beautiful one.
We love you and need you always.
Stand tall and shine. You are our sun.
I just read another scribble taped to someone's Poetry section that attempts to make cutting/suicide into a poem.
1. Been done SO many times: (crimson, gash, slice, woe, you'll be sorry )
2. Can NEVER truly be done well
3. Add grammar errors to an already bad idea, you have something almost as horrific as the author's unoriginal concept.
I ask myself, "Why? Why do you read this shite when it is so painful?"
I guess I have to...just to know I'm ALIVE!
Occam: dread123: wots every1 up to - *twitches*
Violenta: I hope that was you twitching
Occam: yes, me
Occam:specifically my trigger finger, longing to embrace the stock of a shotgun aimed at people who talk like that
Violenta: if you do, I'll walk behind you wearing extra ammo belts
Occam: you're the best
Violenta: and carrying your water bottle and protein bars
Occam: It would make a great reality show. We could find people typing like that, and tell them that if they can write out a coherent plea for mercy their life will be spared.
Occam: Of course, I don't have mercy.
Violenta: I'll also bring along towels. When you start giggling, it might cause a big blood spray.
Occam: That's so thoughtful :)