BrainKing - Diskutaj forumoj (Poetry)

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Poetry

An outlet for players whose creativity extends beyond the board. Post your original works here!

The posting of song lyrics is not the purpose of this board and as such please refrain from doing so. Exceptions can be made to this rule if you are the copyrighted owner of the lyrics and the lyrics are not found offensive by the majority of the population.
This board is a place to post your original works of poetry and prose and also a place for discussion of poetry and related areas.

We have received word from Fencer that other's poetry can be posted to this board. These are the two conditions:
1) When someone posts a known copyrighted poem, he must add the author's name as well
2) If the author is not known, the poem can be posted without problems

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Montri plej malnovajn mesaĝojn unue

1. Septembro 2006, 06:53:25

playBunny

montri mesaĝojn de ĉi tiu uzanto | montri fadenon | ligilo

Temo: One to inspire and two to follow through

A Woman's Poem

He didn't like the casserole and he didn't like my cake.
He said my biscuits were too hard, not like his mother'd make.

I didn't perk the coffee right. He didn't like the stew.
I didn't mend his socks the way his mother used to do.

I pondered for an answer, I was looking for a clue.
Then I turned around and smacked him... Like his MOMMA used to do.

~ Author Unknown. This has been sent around the Internet a few times, apparently. The next two sets are mine and get somewhat darker.

He said I talked to him too much. He didn't care to listen.
He'd tell me off and then walk out once he'd made my eyes glisten.

He never bought me presents 'cos he hated spending money.
He wanted laughter at his jokes though none were very funny.

He didn't want to grow up, he was really still a boy.
He wanted me to be his mum, his plaything, some dumb toy.

I wondered what to do about it, then Ahah! I knew.
I locked him in the cellar... Like his MOMMA used to do.

He'd take my earnings from my purse and say he'd pay it back.
He never did, so I grew poor. He suffered no such lack.

He'd go out of an evening, come back later, rolling drunk.
He thought it funny, in the bath, to give my head a dunk.

He told me what to do and, if I didn't, he would hit!
I walked all stiff from bruises but he didn't give a **it.

With brooding scowls and angry words, he seemed to hate us all.
He'd shout at me and at the kids. He'd make the children bawl.

I grew unhappy, so fed up, deep hatred I now knew,
One day he came home - "That's my gun!"... like POPPA once did too.