My father, you made me from urban dust,
Black as the crow sitting on our grass.
I am now withered from your gust of disgust,
And churned to spread rust like unoiled brass.
But you were present when my real blood flew
Down my skin like tears to escape my soul.
'Depressed puree' is what I then brewed
Until you strengthened my heart eskimo-cold.
I won't display any weakness of glass-brittleness,
From your carbon nanotubed tensile strength.
I will give you what you gave me without shittleness
Of inherited consistency upon your bench.
You gave me the mind of a modern highwayman,
Trained to serve crime like a willng waiter.
In this society, you made me a dismal layman,
With no cargo to be a suitable freighter.
Author notes
AP: Nunchaks
A contest entry
- Please, inspire me. by GossamerAlice.
700 points, ended May 28, 2008, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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"gust of disgust" - very nice image!
you have such great rhythm in your words here, a great flow. I love the ending, it's so thought-provoking. well done
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