Poetry: Unwell and Contempt

Unwell and Contempt
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I’m sorry —
I’m sorry I was hurt
By Satan herself,
Her taint still
Fresh on Winter’s lips.

Still tart —
With the scent
Of the Atheist;
Fresh on my mind —
Still weighing on these hips.

I can’t stress
The times I figure even —
The feelings with no repress,
I sanctify in Eden.

Loss of no tomorrow;
But what’s to lose
On the brow of the lost?
In the darkness
Sleep finds no loss.

I know you’re waiting;
Wondering if you’re the one —
Only time will unveil,
The fissure’s opening
Of my heart, unwell.

ryn: there’s a smurfday? 😉 Reach out and touch

BlackStar

December 15, 2004

And what better fate for us as grains of sand to be blown by the ocean breeze so fresh? Sand slips through our fingers and left holding air are we, not waving but drowning.

frzamonkey

*giggles at marys note* ah, tain’t nothin’ like a poem with the word taint in it. expecially when there are lips applied to it. this is time on sprockets when we pet the

yourdesire;

You have a way with words. I sent you a christmas card. You should get it any time. 🙂 Take care xoxo

hello beautiful…i’m catching up on you. hope to see you over the break – brandie

broken_dreams

December 16, 2004

Thought this was great… I haven’t left you anything in awhile, but your poetry is still a wonder to me. I can’t wait for more. Happy holidays and good luck!!!!

ChelleShell

January 9, 2005

RYN: Thank you for your kind words.