Supermarket fruit
on a desk of onyx
and spent testosterone
to the drawn shades
of angst
and self-hate
birth lives of normalcy and same.
And we surface to blow air
like knife blade nails
on the reality of
bleeding now.
Emasculated, drawn and quartered
by the balls we dangle,
the piece of meat which we are.
Unlived, we dive
into pathetic murk
of what we wished we could be,
wasted.
Our dreams are poison to our reality,
two fingers relief
rammed to the knuckle in our necessity and
frustration.
Genitally flattened
in the face of our hopes,
we swallow the day,
and choke on the size of tomorrow.
And in our dreaming,
we cry for spent seed.
Author notes
A darker thought than usual, but fitting to some of the subjects we have shared. frustration from our inability to act on what we believe, vented at someone else's discomfort. My apologies.
In a list
A contest entry
- Cannonsfire Throws Arms Around The World by CarolDesjarlais.
525 points, ended May 26, 2007, 3 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
True...dark but full of desire for what is to be else...for what else to be is. ty for this write..
Yes, I am one of those who seeder slipped off into the great mystery of gone and can not be found. -
I can actually understand the thought process in this lol, even for this early morning! No apologies necessary for I often think of the wasted seed of man's irresponsibility to the world around him, wish I could plant it back in the soil, nurture it and allow it to regrow stronger, but the time slips by and I may leave it for a new and wiser generation, but I can but keep telling them how a gardener must always tend what he has before it is dead and wilted. Thank you for such insights. Love, C
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