Nonsense

Nonsense,

It’s the Sound of your hand

At the witch hour

Violently banging on our front door,

As a mad man seeking rescuing,

From the demons that I suspect poses u now,

And a reluctant self contemplates course of action,

Do I open and attempt rebuking them out with my scolding?

Or do I play dumb as you wish of me?

Nonsense,

It’s the sore Sight of the drunkard that you’ve now become,

Hurling insults at the incompetence you now see in me,

And me wondering what happened to him that I promised forever to,

A chameleon, I now see, as your true shades now dim my existence,

Nonsense,

That’s the smell of the slut’s perfume,

On the clothes I picked out for you this morning,

My furiated pride dictates I throw you back out,

Just like the trash you’ve made yourself to be,

But the sleeping angels need a daddy,

So I bid my time and think of praying for your sanity

Nonsense

That’s the Taste of the bile rising in my mouth,

At the thought of you sleeping in our bed,

The couch suffices for you I think

But morning conversations with the angels of why its so,

Would render me speechless,

So I grab all the covers,

You can freeze for all I care,

But you are too drunk to notice this,

Nonsense,

Is the Touch of your hands on me as we sleep,

As you shamelessly mistake me for one of the others,

Should I use the pair of scissors lying on our bedside table?

To do the sensible thing or not?

Sense however did leave our home a long time ago,

So in anger I turn to you ready to pounce,

Only for my sixth sense to stop me,

As an epiphany, you are not worth it I realize,

I rouse, head to our angels room,

Beautiful they are to me,

As they peacefully rest, I lean and kiss each and smile,

Because they make all the sense in my world


2010© Ivory Confessions