 |
Poems On Site: 198,500+ Comments On Poems: 427,000+ Forum Posts: 105,000+ |
Custom Search
|
|
|
||||
| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 09-June 21:34:30 AEST | ||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
Array
(
[sid] => 144030
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Mother Burns Easily
[time] => 2008-07-20 00:13:26
[hometext] => This is an extended metaphor poem that I wrote for my creative writing class. I imagined that my mother was a marshmellow. Then it slowly turned into love as cannibalism. Though it is dark it is also meant to be humorous.
[bodytext] => Mother Burns Easily She looks at her skin, she is white and her hands feel soft and gooey. She hasn’t been to the gym in a long time. She should really go before her skin pushes itself out becoming a giant white Marshmallow. She has replaced all of her blood with white paste. It acts like insulation. So that she will never be hurt. When her sisters call her names she pretends that their words do not burn. At night she dreams she is eating a cloud. She is happy, all of her burdens have floated away. When she awakens she discovers that she has gnawed off her left pinky. She looks at it for a second and then plops it into her mouth like a Peep at Easter time. After all, she thinks, Food is food. Her family plots different ways to kill her. They spread her out on a table, each marks an X on the spot that they would like to own. Every night they will do this. She never fights back. She is no longer becoming the marshmallow, she is the marshmallow. The perpetuator of her own abuse. Connie imagines boiling her in hot chocolate, her skin will slowly melt away, slowly mixing in with whipped cream and just a hint of nutmeg. No, Sandra says, it can’t be done like that it will take too long. Let’s shove a stick up her ass and roast her on an open flame. No that’s too messy, Karen says, I vote we puree her and spread her all over crunchy peanut butter sandwiches. Hold on a second don’t I get a say in all of this, she wonders. But dear, her mother answers, we always eat the ones we love. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 161 [topic] => 13 [informant] => sylvias [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
|
Menu
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
Poetry is much like a great photo, a single "moment in time" capturing many feelings and emotions. Yet, they are very alive; creating stirrings within the readers who form visual "pictures" of the expressed emotions within the Poem. ©
Opinions expressed in the poetry, comments, forums etc. on this site are not necessarily those of this site, its owners and/or operators; but of the individuals who post items to this site.
Frequently Asked Questions | | | Privacy Policy | | | Contact Webmaster
All submitted items are Copyright © to their submitter. All the rest Copyright © 2002-2050 by Your Poetry Dot Com
All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owners.
Script Generation Time: 0.052 Seconds. - View our Site Map | .© your-poetry.com