My mouth broils as he Ogre’s around
our apartment. Things,
severely minuscule things
out of place,
His small feet stomp inflammation
into our feeble floors.
His small hands run away from
to find me,
to strangle me!
I watch from underneath
couch cushions, where crumbs of
yesterday lay sullen until
they are found out later
sucked away by his mean vacuum cleaner.
he calls me out…
angry laughter speeds from his
black callousness to
my eardrums. I hear them explode.
He stomps with plague.
He stomps to me. Ripping me from
haven, his touch ignites my mouth
filled with fire juice
all I can do is spit!
Posted on April 11, 2012, in Poetry and tagged abuse, anger, Annoyance, couch, Dark, fear, hands, Hate, hiding, Irritation, love, Ogre, pain, Physical abuse, Poems, poetry, Relationships, small feet, small hands, verbal abuse, violence, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 23 Comments.