Eliana Rampage
troll killer
- Joined
- Jan 13, 2010
- Messages
- 639
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So I don't see a lot of poetry around these parts, but I'll still post some to share for everyone. 
-----
Fresh out of the womb
Green and dripping bodily functions
And you dare tell me how to paint a portrait.
As you ripened up
Inside that hysterical uterus
Of Hippocrates’ making,
You clearly deciphered
All the universe had to offer.
The Trojan horse looms a
Raging 2 feet high.
You tower above the sky-line
Stomping and snorting
Dressed as a bull
Sporting a silken rag
In a vintage china shop.
Specifically vintage, of course,
Because it’s oh-so original.
All the artisans
And all the minstrels
Will worship you.
A deity among the gods
As you destroy Olympus
With the flick of a finger.
Grab the reins and
Woo the ladies
With your gentle words.
A Crystal rose
that will appear and vanish
at the slightest movement
of your “licorice” tongue.
O, for without the licorice, where
Would you be?
You speak art
You smell art
You bleed art
You die art.
But you overlook
The minute details
Which compose a piece-
For you are blinded
By human desire
And the sweat
That rolls off
Pinocchio’s nose
And into the frying pan
Where you burn
To a satisfying crisp
Only to write of
Your short-comings in
Your
virtual journal.
-----
Fresh out of the womb
Green and dripping bodily functions
And you dare tell me how to paint a portrait.
As you ripened up
Inside that hysterical uterus
Of Hippocrates’ making,
You clearly deciphered
All the universe had to offer.
The Trojan horse looms a
Raging 2 feet high.
You tower above the sky-line
Stomping and snorting
Dressed as a bull
Sporting a silken rag
In a vintage china shop.
Specifically vintage, of course,
Because it’s oh-so original.
All the artisans
And all the minstrels
Will worship you.
A deity among the gods
As you destroy Olympus
With the flick of a finger.
Grab the reins and
Woo the ladies
With your gentle words.
A Crystal rose
that will appear and vanish
at the slightest movement
of your “licorice” tongue.
O, for without the licorice, where
Would you be?
You speak art
You smell art
You bleed art
You die art.
But you overlook
The minute details
Which compose a piece-
For you are blinded
By human desire
And the sweat
That rolls off
Pinocchio’s nose
And into the frying pan
Where you burn
To a satisfying crisp
Only to write of
Your short-comings in
Your
virtual journal.