BooMerengue
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2002
- Posts
- 5,456
she painted the walls blue
i understood when she did the kitchen
the place where
he threw spaghetti that time
and she left it there
till he cleaned up
I wanted to write a poem
explaining that I understand
that no paint can cover
a peeling life, you can sand
and prime until your fingers
bleed brighter than any gloss
and you'll still see the dent
where you smashed the keys
that night frustration shook
you to one mad act. That dent
will grimace from under any
spackle, even when you brush
it with sky.
but the living room is blue
and the furniture is new and
rearanged
probablt feng shui
she used to laugh at me
when i talked about that stuff
I wanted to explain
that I realize nothing conceals
disrepair of the soul of a house,
but I couldn't because I wrote
that poem for fifteen years.
I held a pen in one hand, a brush
in the other. The brush was dripping
with hope but the paint wouldn't
stay on the walls, never covered
that dent.
the blue wall never heard the shouts
and crying
the blue wall doesnt remember
like i do
the blue wall makes it seem
like just another old womans house
neat and always waiting
a house that peeks out of itself
to see if anyone
is coming up the walk
I wanted to explain
that I realize nothing conceals
disrepair of the soul of a house,
but I couldn't because I wrote
that poem for fifteen years.
I held a pen in one hand, a brush
in the other. The brush was dripping
with hope but the paint wouldn't
stay on the walls, never covered
that dent. I wrote that poem already
but I was invisible, lost in the laundry basket,
trying to pretend that blue meant peace.
the blue wall makes me see her as
small and gray
it doesnt feel like my house any more
i tell her
i dont like the color
I wanted to explain
that I realize nothing conceals
disrepair of the soul of a house,
but I couldn't because I wrote
that poem for fifteen years.
I held a pen in one hand, a brush
in the other. The brush was dripping
with hope but the paint wouldn't
stay on the walls, never covered
that dent. I wrote that poem already
but I was invisible, lost in the laundry basket,
trying to pretend that blue meant peace.
Please forgive me for being so bold, but this really got to me. Both poems. Tath, I read yours earlier this am, and it left its mark on me. Ange? When I read yours it made me gasp. Its really beautiful. I know this is a hatchet job of combination, but I'm sure you guys could make it better. I bet admit2 would love to have this.
i understood when she did the kitchen
the place where
he threw spaghetti that time
and she left it there
till he cleaned up
I wanted to write a poem
explaining that I understand
that no paint can cover
a peeling life, you can sand
and prime until your fingers
bleed brighter than any gloss
and you'll still see the dent
where you smashed the keys
that night frustration shook
you to one mad act. That dent
will grimace from under any
spackle, even when you brush
it with sky.
but the living room is blue
and the furniture is new and
rearanged
probablt feng shui
she used to laugh at me
when i talked about that stuff
I wanted to explain
that I realize nothing conceals
disrepair of the soul of a house,
but I couldn't because I wrote
that poem for fifteen years.
I held a pen in one hand, a brush
in the other. The brush was dripping
with hope but the paint wouldn't
stay on the walls, never covered
that dent.
the blue wall never heard the shouts
and crying
the blue wall doesnt remember
like i do
the blue wall makes it seem
like just another old womans house
neat and always waiting
a house that peeks out of itself
to see if anyone
is coming up the walk
I wanted to explain
that I realize nothing conceals
disrepair of the soul of a house,
but I couldn't because I wrote
that poem for fifteen years.
I held a pen in one hand, a brush
in the other. The brush was dripping
with hope but the paint wouldn't
stay on the walls, never covered
that dent. I wrote that poem already
but I was invisible, lost in the laundry basket,
trying to pretend that blue meant peace.
the blue wall makes me see her as
small and gray
it doesnt feel like my house any more
i tell her
i dont like the color
I wanted to explain
that I realize nothing conceals
disrepair of the soul of a house,
but I couldn't because I wrote
that poem for fifteen years.
I held a pen in one hand, a brush
in the other. The brush was dripping
with hope but the paint wouldn't
stay on the walls, never covered
that dent. I wrote that poem already
but I was invisible, lost in the laundry basket,
trying to pretend that blue meant peace.
Please forgive me for being so bold, but this really got to me. Both poems. Tath, I read yours earlier this am, and it left its mark on me. Ange? When I read yours it made me gasp. Its really beautiful. I know this is a hatchet job of combination, but I'm sure you guys could make it better. I bet admit2 would love to have this.
