Pigeon cannot writ poam.

I remembered again today!
Looking at yesterday's poem and today's I can only assume that I am slowly turning into a zombie. Unfortunately, all I did to write them was to attempt to describe how I feel, so, awkies. Anyway, poem:


Crumbling under pressure

The flesh is dripping off of me.
Every movement is a slow ache;
if I move fast I will tip over,
crumble apart. My head
is a swollen balloon
that will not burst;
the pressure drives me mad.

I pinch my nose and blow
but my ears will not pop,
and my face comes away in my hands.

Yesterday I scrawled something down while babysitting, and then forgot to put it up here (sorry, it's absolutely terrible, but I've been constantly exhausted so can that be my excuse?).


Watching over someone else's house while the children are asleep

I do not trust
houses as clean as this,
or children so obedient.
Seeing people managing
everything so well I
become suspicious
and find fault in the lack of fault.
What are they hiding,
with their clear surfaces,
clean bench-tops,
a million channels on tv,
home-cooked food,
and kids who go to bed when they are told?
What are they hiding?

I was thinking along the same line, two nights ago while babysitting as well ^^ o_0

I've kind of given up on managing one every day, but maybe there will still be the occasional poem this month. A mediocre metaphor occurred to me today so I wrote a thing.


Lost

What we have broken
together
was once mendable,
but we have let it wear away
and now it is beyond repair.

The way we love each other
is a paper-cut
beneath a fingernail.
It is a stinging pain which can
just barely be ignored.

The way we love each other is
loss of limb
loss we are pretending
never occurred.

^ Nix everything in brackets and it's good.

(Shhh, I have an overwheming need to explain myself in brackets.)

Much better.