_______________________
Lump
Oh here comes Mr. Toad.
Gullet drooped like dripping tallow,
Little leering nodes,
And skin like soap eroded—shallow pits of sickly pallor—
And his knuckles knots of rope.
His eyes spit mist of swollen sorrow
All across your toes.
No taller than your feet he grows.
No innocence he knows.
Slack-jawed staring, hardly caring
What bones he cracks or brains he lacks.
His smugness stays intact
As he waddles through his woes,
Bottled in his mottled clothes
Of slimy sin and salty grins.
Oh why so bitter, grim Sir Toad?
The loads you bear are paltry, hardly fair
To call them grandiose.
They’re composed of your own shyness,
Squinting faces of the self you loathe.
How can you dare to hate us so when you were born a fetid soul?
Redemption thrown through pleading windows, that’s the fate you chose.
__________________________
I'm going to go get a glass of juice. Cheers.
-T
You *are* weird. More importantly though, juice won't fill you up very well. It's notorious for that (unless it's, like, coagulated beef fat juice. that will likely do the trick.)
ReplyDeleteNice poem, btw. I feel like that describes most people, really (or maybe just me).
(captcha: perbessi)
I liked the poem, but mostly I wanted to say that I know exactly what you mean about simultaneously feeling settled, productive and empty. Stupid growing up...
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