A geek but I turn green when I write. I dabble in short prose and poetry. A quiet STORM…
The Magician’s Cloak You wear it often. In fact—always. And they expect you to. Always sitting in their seats, Waiting for the performance of a lifetime.
By Mischief Muchaneta8 months ago in Poets
You give her more credit than she deserves. Like when you got those hard-earned distinctions— and thanked her. What the hell for?
Focus on her feet, Forget the lips, my son. The lips are hypnotic— They numb the senses, cloud logic. Let me show you how the con was executed.
She is emotionally devoid. Her core—an expanse of empty space. On the surface, she’s the life of the party. If her followers read this, they’d burn me at the stake.
The night you lied about who was calling while we were on the phone together— I called my ex afterwards. That day you wouldn’t kiss me because your friend was around— I slept with my neighbour.
I’m not done. You fancy yourself vital — like the sun. Who told you I needed a tan? Plenty of you in the bakery — you’re just another bun.
Allow me to ingratiate myself with you critics, To add condiment to your cloying rhetoric. Predictably, you'll inanely assert
I brought to thought as I wrote, sought to quote, a mind soaked in Moët tots and rot— a preacher richer than the creature
Will somebody hold me down? Like a clown, talk of the town I have become— Recruiting and sacking wives like they're on contract.
The storm blew me away while you looked away, too concerned with the pirates that wanted your gold. You fought and fought,
I wish my heart could speak for itself. I'm not qualified to speak for it. I wish I could ink out this love letter with its contents.
At the risk of sounding contrived— yet deserving of applause for avoiding the cliché, uninspired, and unoriginal phrase "caramel/chocolate skin"—
