Swashbucklers Retreat

by

Brbadpenny

Once upon a time. Twice I've been the victim.
And three times I've been refused.
All in all I see no light. Beginning to wonder if there's even a light to see. And if there is a light and I do come in hold of it will it be taken away and broken into pieces like everything else.
A couple of years ago I might have had the same problem but I just can't remember that far back.
The executioner waits for the green light as a chorus of overweight gas station attendants reminisce under the podium.
I've lost all feelings from the heart up. Incapable of love as we know it.
I feel just like the moon.
Just like a broken glass.
Just like a stain on a floor.

A romantic screams for help and attention.
Even now thoughts and memories are becoming difficult to put in alphabetical order. Leaving me helpless and avoided.
Never to forget.
But left only to remember every other word.
Vagabonds witness my execution.
The burlap sack. The comedian. The drumroll.
I think about my lifelong dream of jumping on Anita Ekberg.
Maybe sometime in a past life it might have happened but I just can't remember that far back.
Pretenders continue to wander the streets as I sit beneath her window and refuse to leave until every word she ever spoke to me is repeated in my mind for a second time.
I feel just like the moon.
Just like a broken glass.
Just like a stain on a floor.
I'm constantly reminded.
Just like a stain on a floor..

NEXT?
Why don't you look at CLOUD OF LOCUSTS
by: Patrick Uanseru
from: Lagos, Lagos State, Nigeria

To visit all of Brbadpenny's poems, click HERE

Check out these deals at Amazon.com

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

To write us about this page,
contact willy@dreamagic.com (Willy Chaplin)