Daughters
cross little lavender
penmanship sabres;
mothers wear perfume
to be unforgettable.
Their high heels
are so cruel, leaving smells
of comfort inside ugly jackets.
We use the same
weapons.
(They breezed
the kitchen today,
knifed my nostrils’
exhausted breathing. It was very
sad,
sitting there with my chin
in my hand,)
They were bravery;
who were they, anyway?
Author notes
depression...lol
A contest entry
- Dark/Sad Quickie by SuicidalLover.
700 points, ended December 18, 2008, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
Wow you really took this out of the box. It's speaks of truth though. Nice touch. Thanks for entering.
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