He doesn't listen,
the stupid bastard,
just scrapes away
flesh and tissue.
Hollowing out
like he's making a canoe.
You're the vessel.
You tell him to shut-up,
to get the fuck off of your lawn,
and he just stands there,
tromping on your roses,
pissing on your alysums,
smiling cooly.
Getting away with it.
Scrape, scrape, scrape.
He keeps you awake.
He crank calls you at midnight,
trips you on the sidewalk,
tires you out,
until you finally let him take over,
sit in your favorite chair,
eat all of your chips and
Scrape.
Scrape.
Scrape.
2 comments:
This is pretty much what's happening to my Grandma right now. I originally titled it scrape, because I don't want to be so obvious, but whatever.
I have nothing more to say than this is one hell of a fucking poem!!! It conveys so much feeling as good poems should.
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