Little girl walking down the street,
Pretty princess dressed in pink.
On your way in search of something sweet.
Large toothy grins for the neighbors you know.
But up to strange new doors you boldly go
For behind them is what you seek.
With fleshy paws reaching, the men you meet,
Dole out sugary little nothings that melt on your tongue,
And roll of theirs,
As they pinch your cheeks.
It was just a job.
Three years watching her through that machine.
And maybe a little part of me fell in love with her.
I recorded the words she spoke.
Even the ones that I knew she was speaking to me.
In the hours that she slept every night
I stood guard; thankful for the dreams that made her sigh
And angered at the monsters who threatened her.
Friends visited her and I ached to be one of them.
She went on dates with men who didn’t deserve her.
Lying in bed at night I huddle beneath the covers.
Mommy always said that the monster under my bed wasn’t real;
So why do I have to bury my head under the pillow
To drown out the sound so late at night…
I hear it in the solitary creak of the single stair.
And the rustle of the curtain when the fan ceases to turn.
It can speak a thousand tension ridden nothings
Between one drop of an ice cube and another.
It keeps watch, with me as its prisoner, from the window sill.
The only evidence it was there is the pocket sized clink of Spots dog tags.
Little angel.
Laced lollipop.
Littered limericks.
Limp lecher.
I’d rather be a rockstar;
a poet in ripped jeans.
I want to wear my heart
on a tattooed sleeve.
I want to feed my soul
by sucking life dry
of every moment.
*
I’d rather be a rockstar;
a priest with a guitar
642 Poems and More 