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Poke me and Die
Poke me again I'll break your fuckin fingers
It reminds me of pain that still lingers
I can't stand the poking it's what he use to do
By now you'd think I could distinguish between the two.
His drunken fingers beat on my skin
Poking and prodding my soul within
Breakin me down cut after cut
As if I'm not his child, just some dirty mutt.
I can still feel his touch, every lie
So excuse me whenI say "Poke me and die".
I love the way you can take any subject and write about it, I tried to write about how my dad used to stand in our face eye to eye and yell at us with his beer/weed breath and tell us to look at him when he was talking to us I'd be like hello someone needs to get shot in the mouth with a tic tac machine gun or a mentos bazooka. But anyways love the poem and thanks for the critiques. Maybe this is why I avoid eye contact to this day.
i like ur poem, short and to the point. I feel like that a little with some things my mother used to do. It annoying!!! anyhoo, smile Schmidtty! :)
Sherry
Love the title, such a Robin thing to say : )
Ill make sure not to poke you
kitty