There in the mist she comes
In bright colors
Torn dress
Up to the heaps
She shows a leg
She is Mad
She comes at night
I`m alone
with phantoms,Devils
and the whore
In my head, she comes to rest
Small hours of darkness
With candles lit
To show the pages of pure genious
I am
A poet with a difference
Mad like hell
Where is it
I forget
Or so I heard
Somewhere to the left
Of Baker street
Down the City
The old Town
Where pubs
Are filled with drunks
Where pretty ladies drink
Sprite wine
That stings of lemonade
Oh me
The poor old fool
The poet of genious fruit
I cut my tomato
And make a mess
With her dictating my next
Senario of crazyness
Write she says
Or else
I am going to leave you in distress
At that she takes a box cutter
What am I
Some carton box
Or a red ribbon
Do have a guess
Author notes
Contest, mad stuff
A contest entry
- The Poet by Angelo di Luce.
300 points, ended October 11, 2008, 1 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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you are mad also Nick
-
"I am
A poet with a difference
Mad like Hell"
I was compelled to laugh, and then immediately felt ashamed
this was a piece of brilliant writing. Thanks for sharing.
Carrie
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I think you are a wonderful mad poet my friend
Thanks for the entry
Good luck
-
box cutters and kisses. poem is manic Nick but boxcutter is my own personal weapon. who else comes to your door with one in their pocket?
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