deepundergroundpoetry.com

Games

They warned 'It's a gloomy Sunday'  
and I  
did not bite.  
At Sunday Roast I didn't listen
and I  
did not fight.
Even when the darkness loomed in the sky
and the rain pelted on the window
I
did not listen
but at night
when he's gone,
and these silly little games have
gone to bed,
the curl of fear stays widened, awake,
locked inside my chest.
It's a demon
like I said
I
did not listen
yet tonight it rings and brings its heartless things
to my bed side and in my drink.
It's the spit of venom on his tongue
attached to silly, easy games
I said
I did not want to play.
Maybe slumber will take  
those old bruises
and put them in a little box
and lock them until my heart's forgot
the rules  
to the game
I promise
I did not wish to play.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published | Edited 7th Nov 2011
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4 reading list entries 0
comments 6 reads 792
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
POETRY
Today 11:21am by Grace
COMPETITIONS
Today 11:15am by Her
SPEAKEASY
Today 9:24am by Too_hot69
COMPETITIONS
Today 4:56am by NANCY_RDZ_STORIES
SPEAKEASY
Today 4:15am by Grace
SPEAKEASY
Today 3:33am by DCLXVI_1989