Poem: Twisted Tongue Lip Service

Fingers tied to puppet strings, unknowing,

It’s to be known when you are grown or you’ll suffer with a groan

And blood still on your burial gown on the burying ground, with your mother wearing a frown and tears don’t reach heaven,

Neither does the preachers preach, or the teachers teaching of not being a creature playing with life’s silk,

But one drinking from society’s pitcher of milk, but the ilk of those who drink the milk is the ilk of the big stink of rotting corpses,

Who in their final revenge sent forth a dreadful disease and they will cough and the disease will use their chest wheeze as a musical instrument of torment,

And they will lament the day they took for granted what their hearts chanted, and so wanted them to chant, but they can’t chant the other when the other that is claiming to know better is burping out the preach,

And so they too burp for the lip service but their heart is wrenched and their lives are spent in getting spent, all the while relenting to those corpses who invented and those zombies still inventing the same tone of a brown note, which causes a lump in your throat,

Not of sadness but of madness, of sameness and to be blameless and wholly painless, but is the lack of pain worth the lack of pleasure, are we to just survive instead of thrive when thriving comes with bouts with boxers and bloodied noses on one, but on the other a fragrance sexier than the perfume of a Goddess,

And they will fume at your choice to abstain from the milk, and sew your silk, and scoff while their wicked cough envelopes them in the mundane of the same, again and again and again,

And yes I did suffer , might suffer again but I will always know where happiness is, hereafter.


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