wrists that roarmama sayswrists that roar by ~anniba
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see
but no-one's even looking
i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger
and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely
who says
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw
i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar
mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar
i write bad poetry.You are made of bone, sinew, gristle, synapse, skin, keratini write bad poetry. by *Anatopist
not inkwells and Hemingway, galaxy-cuttings and star-trimmings
or dream, Edgar Allen Poe, absinthe, reflections and sin.
You know a hundred words to describe every pockmark that dots
your face and the way your pens fit into arrow-quivers by that
ricketty old desk of yours but
Words will not
fall
from your mother-of-pearl lips
(willingly.)
Apply cleverly-done descending letters here
and sprinkle one jaunty hyphen across the page
because after all, punctuation is a hitchhiker
and you're speeding down the word count like a cargo truck
till you crash into an abrupt ending or more lik
three guns, and one goes offthe first time i met you, you held a gun to my head.three guns, and one goes off by =vvolatile
"aren't you scared?" you asked. there was a smile on your face, only the slightest bit sadistic glinting somewhere beneath the surface. and i couldn't blame you - i felt it too. your eyes, quite blue, were bright and sincerely innocent. your hair fell into your eyes and you kept brushing it over, and even though you were much taller and a year older i was, it kept you looking so child-like and hardly scary.
or maybe it was just me. most people cringe a little around firearms, whether or not you think they would ever pull the trigger.
i tilted my head toward you and answered with a questi
Joy 
Sta.sh
. 
