Author Information
Playing His Own Game
I look at him
When he asks me to,
But not into his eyes
The way I was taught when I was young
For hidden there,
Is something I despise - something
That cancels out
The ingrained need to be polite…
To give this passer-by a look inside
No,
Instead, I focus on his teeth
Garishly, white – gleaming bright
And imagine them as
Rotting, wooden stumps –
The forked tongue of a snake
Forced to tell truths by
The bleeding of his gums, that
Have feasted their last fill.
Taken their last breath from
Trusting lungs.
WOW! esmerellda,
THIS IS POETRY! really wonderful how you chose a situation that is easy to relate to. and good technique to reference youth lessons. and then you transition to the teeth and tongue! HA! which you took the great opportunity to describe in disgusting detail. (really, essi)
very dark and deeply disturbing, (nice!) , especially the part "...the way i was taught when i was young..."
reminds me of that superstition of people being afraid for their souls if they were to be photographed...
nice stuff
a.s.
Once again,
Quite a good poem. Refreshing. I know that people
write what they feel at the moment, and I acknowledge
the truth behind it, but the truth is... I get bored
same old depressing ink. I find solice in your
writing, because even though it may be not so happy,
youve given it new life instead of beating the same
dead horse over and over. Thank you for the read.
Mason
"and the word was with God, and the
word was God..."
Stay true...