Emily Claire Baudelaire
Sat with her little nose in the air.
And row after row,
She’d turn up her nose
At each and every fellow’s...
…girl.
Oh, my-
Oh, my, my-
Oh, my jealous Emily!
Oh, my!
Can’t you see?
That’s you’re the one
For me?
Oh, oh, oh!
You’re the one for me!
Every morning at nine on the dot,
Emily went to the coffee shop.
And there she sat,
Her hands in her lap
Thinking, “How do I be a girl…
…Like that?”
Oh, my-
Oh, my, my-
Oh, my jealous Emily!
Oh, my!
Can’t you see?
That’s you’re the one
For me?
Oh, oh, oh!
You’re the one for me!
Her perfect skin,
Her eyes full of grace.
A porcelain doll
All clothed in lace
And guilty are those,
Who dare to
Leave her in wait,
She’s the kind of girl
Who seems to never think..
Straight.
Emily Claire Baudelaire
Wished she could be as debonair
As the boys who she fucked,
She had the worst of luck.
And she still never seemed to think of…
Me!
Oh, my-
Oh, my, my-
Oh, my precious Emily!
Oh, my!
Can’t you see?
That’s you’re selling
For free?
Oh, oh, oh!
My jealous Emily!
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
full, red set.
her nails click-clack-clicked
at the typewriter she called home.
like red arrows, they pierced
each
black
key
with a definitive strike,
her poison being the words that bloomed.
long ago she had given up the feel
of ink hitting a crisp sheet of paper,
planting seeds and watching their vines
grow and wind with her cursive swirls.
it was as if over the course
of a lifetime,
she had learned to fear the connection
to the page;
learned to deny her muse, for the feeling
of frenzied blue lines pouring from her hand,
racing her brain,
left her exhausted and despondent.
and that reality occurred so often that
one morning she awoke,
and realized that she would be better off
click-clack-clicking away for a man,
typing his words, making him happy,
for she didn’t know what happiness was anymore.
at the typewriter she called home.
like red arrows, they pierced
each
black
key
with a definitive strike,
her poison being the words that bloomed.
long ago she had given up the feel
of ink hitting a crisp sheet of paper,
planting seeds and watching their vines
grow and wind with her cursive swirls.
it was as if over the course
of a lifetime,
she had learned to fear the connection
to the page;
learned to deny her muse, for the feeling
of frenzied blue lines pouring from her hand,
racing her brain,
left her exhausted and despondent.
and that reality occurred so often that
one morning she awoke,
and realized that she would be better off
click-clack-clicking away for a man,
typing his words, making him happy,
for she didn’t know what happiness was anymore.
home.
you’re home.
i look out the window,
and yes, you’re home.
a day earlier than expected.
will you ever speak to me again?
i think not,
you’ll move away in a day
or two
and i will be left to
fill this burning hole
that i wish i could
throw you in.
i look out the window,
and yes, you’re home.
a day earlier than expected.
will you ever speak to me again?
i think not,
you’ll move away in a day
or two
and i will be left to
fill this burning hole
that i wish i could
throw you in.
desperate.
we’ve been broken up
for about four months now.
so inviting you over was probably
a little unorthodox.
but in hindsight,
i’ve never made you moan like that before.
for about four months now.
so inviting you over was probably
a little unorthodox.
but in hindsight,
i’ve never made you moan like that before.
a bunch of shitty poems.
i’m pretty sure that all i’ll ever write anymore
are a bunch of shitty poems;
clever, bitchy one-liners.
because i’m tired of hating myself,
trying to create beauty.
are a bunch of shitty poems;
clever, bitchy one-liners.
because i’m tired of hating myself,
trying to create beauty.
heartless.
maybe you were so hesitant about
giving me my locket back
because it felt nice to have a heart
for once.
giving me my locket back
because it felt nice to have a heart
for once.
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