PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My eyes are groggy,
oozing from their sockets in their feeble attempt at freedom.

The inkblots liked to scatter as the wrath of god fell on my head;
all comic book style with etched in bubbles
restraining the sounds of doom in bold.
CRUNCH.
Printed footsteps lead to off-shoots of truth
with lies tucked up sweetly in bed
waiting for zealot mommies to create zealot babies
so the pope can claim bankruptcy yet again.

They say I’m not a religious girl,
but I have no problem worshiping a non-existent creature;
So long as they are lusty.
And you find me one that they don’t have chained in Hell;
but its alright,
I like them crispy.

Am I the sinner or the saint?
Logically, I am no more illogical than the believer.
(But you try telling them that!)

Pretend, for a moment, that I did give a flying fuck
about the rarity of this so-called opportunity
and what is screeched about that soul of mine
(it’s around here somewhere),
then come back to reality
and remember who you're talking to
before you look too far down.

Organs are grinding
and the word bubbles are singing a different tune
in the confessional booth.
So tell me, love,
where are you?