It's Said...

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

Sure, it's said, over and again.

But good old Jenkins had a grudge,

Gorgeous as the bitter old bitch was.

She came calling for morning coffee, (wood, if you please).

Chipped mauve nails gripping that cup, floors up.

Giving Jenkins those hungry hazel eyes, (startling, some say).

Jenkins giving her something a little more below the belt...

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But he spat in her morning coffee.

Watching her ruby lips at ear after ear,

Beckoning to their favorite room, “good acoustics".

She flipped the bird with a witty grin, (wood, behind the counter).

Digging her half-assed nails into another man's hand.

Baseball, grandma's panties, stale pussy, anything, (just slightly aroused).

Jenkins heard every moan, every utterance of that man's name.

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But he took her the very next day.

And he ravaged her; his and his alone.

And she screamed pleasure and hatred.

She wrapped her ankles around the old bastard's neck, (leverage, some say).

Screaming out every name but his, breaking his being, his stride.

And he slapped that old bitch dead on the ass, (she liked it, ineffective).

And Jenkins choked her nice and hard; she looked so pretty in blue.

It's said Jenkins was a hollow man,

And he sliced his wrist in her coffee,

Dying of satisfaction watching her swallow.

And he jacked it right then and there, (dead wood).

It’s said Mr. Jenkins was a good man,

But they changed it to Genesee Hotel.

It’s said Mr. Jenkins haunts those halls,

And that bitter old bitch gets coffee every morning.

Mommy.

Slice right here, cut right there;
Mommy's got all the right bandages.
Blood drips, like tiny ballerinas
Dancing their way down that pretty silver drain.

Your face is a mess, and you look like shit.
You're much too fat, changes your clothes.

I slit open my thighs as I ponder what you know;
Am I pretty enough for you yet?

Scrape that makeup with half-bitten nails.
As mascara writes "disgrace" on wet cheeks.
Not nearly good enough, not even close.
Close, close comes that sharp friend no one knows.

Your makeup is running and your chins are showing.
Your hair is flipping out, go straighten that mess.

I paint my nails in the blood on my chest.
While he sits and cries beside me, knowing.

I cake my face in the blood you make me spill.
Pretty little war paints; puckering red lips.
Bright eyes of mine watch the skin curl back on my wrists.
Telling the fatal cuts of how I love my mother so.

You were good enough, don't go yet.
I loved you so, pretty little girl.

Blood dots the I's on her goodbye to the world.
Am I pretty enough for you yet?

You Taught Me Words

Please just remember, you taught me words.
How a phrase can become the most beautiful of flowers,
And words can tear at the heart strings like the tug of a newborn.
You made me make others feel me, feel you; feel life.

You taught me how to speak emotion,
Unlike how I used to fumble upon words with a shaking voice.
I simply spoke how I felt, making you uncomfortable and older,
Touching your heart with the tip of my finger, to feel the littlest bit.

I taught you nothing and force fed you emotion.
Emotion you didn't want, emotion that was wrong; emotion titled criminal.
I tugged at your hands and your shirt and anything to make you stay,
And God knows I watched you leave as my heart crawled to my sleeve.

You taught me everything I didn't know.
You taught me words, emotion, love, hate, poetry.
You taught me to feel Spring as if it were your hugs once more.
You taught me how it feels when the best part of you leaves.