Victor's shit poems @victor-does-poems-now - Tumblr Blog

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Fine

Intro post:

#Victor's tired #Victor is a parent

Artist.

Oh stings the artist's heart,

To be dissected, part by part.

Such a grueling ritual,

Gory and jarring, but eventual.

An artist can never really resist

Using their scalpel words to persist;

To reveal the ribs

And vulnerable bits.

Oh sings the artist's tongue,

Bleeding; it always rings true.

Honest words told In tall tales,

Issues depicted as large and with scales.

Did you ever think the dragon to be a king?

The knight was a traitor, a dreadful thing.

Oh poor artist hand,

Broken fingers, skin dry like sand.

Hurting flesh in face of a powerful animal

Small ears, skull contents minimal.

It has hardened paws, sharpened teeth

Unlike you, it can't see underneath.

It can't peel away flesh, only wound

They are not like your delicate hand.

Its grip will bruise, its claws will nick;

Draw blood, not unlike your careful prick.

#victor tries to actually do poetry #victor's screaming #Artist.

Intimacy.

There's an intimacy

In being able to hold

My palm against your chest.

Not that lust

Too gentle for that

So much sweeter

Dare I even say

Beyond love.

The pulse beneath the flesh.

Your heart beat

Against my hand

As I silently relax

To count your breaths.

#victor tries to actually do poetry #Intimacy.

Thrill

Oh but isn't there a thrill

In hearing the heart race?

Listen to the quick pulse

Hear it pick up the pace.

It feels so incredibly exciting.

Like gambling with a hidden ace.

To cheat your way to the top,

Never accepting anything but first place.

So long as you're not caught, of course,

So keep that façade on your face.

It's exhilarating, a sheep in a lion's den,

And yet we smirk before the chase.

Tell me, fellow fool, are you ready to run?

Unchained, without a claim to any base.

#victor tries to actually do poetry #Thrill

Shelter Dog.

Love me like a shelter dog.

I can already see your eyes, full of pity,

Watching me as I take a sip from my can and, over the rim, call you pretty.

You can take me home, if you want, I'll sleep on your floor

Occasionally stirring, eyes half open to watch the door.

I'll curl up, after a while, and rest at your feet

A show of trust, to convey that I don't think you'd kick me, a little bittersweet.

And one day, if you'll let me, I'll place my head in your lap,

Close my eyes and wearily take a much needed nap.

I apologise in advance for the day that I bark,

I've grown used to the permanent danger of the dark.

And don't worry if I snarl, if I bear my teeth.

I promise I'm only a beaten-down dog underneath.

You'll see me growl, you'll see me howl,

You'll likely even see me prowl,

But it'll be to keep you safe, believe me,

I'll keep you oblivious to everything I had to see.

Maybe, finally, finally I'll sleep.

And when you hear me snore, you might even weep.

I imagine the story behind the scar on my hand might draw out some quiet tears,

Even if I lied and said it didn't ache after all these years.

I'll laugh after I tell you a story. I'll say "Tis what it is."

And you'll know that to love a shelter dog, sadly, is to constantly hear this.

I'll watch you quietly and let you twirl my hair with your fingers

And the topic will shift to something light, like the weather or singers.

If you want to love me, you're going to have to learn,

I'm afraid I might be a little much when I pine, when I yearn.

But maybe you'll find it worthwhile when you have a hound at your heel

I'll bite on your command with teeth like steel.

Love me like a shelter dog.

#Shelter Dog.#victor tries to actually do poetry

I like this blog, it's cosy.

A maximum of three people see most of my posts on this blog and I think that's great.

Cosy little space.

#victor's tired

Tiger boy.

Tiger boy, show me

The scar on your hand.

Tell me how the blood felt

Warm against lonely skin.

Tiger boy, you need rest

Even predators need sleep.

Angry boy, lay your head

You'll work yourself to death.

#victor tries to actually do poetry #victor's screaming #Tiger boy.

Blessed be the God

That left us to rot.

Made in his image.

Buried under a pool of ink spillage.

Blessed be the God

That left us to bleed.

That with his own stained hands

Would plant us, broken seeds.

Blessed be the God

That cursed us to hurt.

That hexed us with traumas

To test our soul's worth.

Blessed be the God

That I want to kill,

With my own heretic hands,

By my own impure will.

#victor tries to actually do poetry #victor's screaming #Blessed be the God

Broken

The lights are, truly, far too bright,

A blinding flash of God in the middle of the night,

And as a stubborn atheist, that's something I don't desire,

Wrapped in warm blankets because the cold is dire.

The fire will lick and spit and burn and hiss,

Biting and nipping, but something feels amiss,

The lingering sensation of numbness and cold,

Sharp contrast to embers and the way they do scald.

For I am a broken light, A dying flame,

Moments of virtue set ablaze.

For I am a dead flame and a light too bright,

Especially for someone who enjoys the night.

#victor tries to actually do poetry #Broken

Heavy.

How can I breathe?

With this weight on my chest.

It hurts, you know?

This state of permanent unrest

#Victor tries to actually do poetry #Heavy.

Rage

Rage has taken over me

A beast that is becoming more frequent to see.

It settles in my chest with familiarity,

It's a welcome development in light of life's cruelty.

Perhaps rage will force something out of me that's able to stand

But I've craved the ability to feel anger since I could clench a hand

Now I have it, I'll carve it into the disturbed soil of my body's land

And I shall let It spill blood as it should command

Because my fear is dying and my sadness is bowing low

They give way to the leader of my tomorrow

I should not live by rage, that I know,

But I'll do anything to shove past sorrow.

#Victor tries to actually do poetry #Victor's screaming #Rage

Hunger

There's an unbearable hunger,

Insatiable in desire,

Swallowing and swallowing,

It fails to tire,

Unthinking, beastly, feral,

Not bound by hire.

It writhes under the soil,

Unearthing the earth,

Uprooting all that is steady,

It settles at no hearth.

What lies underneath, I do not know,

But it drags people to madness, the descent slow,

It's driven by hunger, takes people low.

There's an unbearable hunger,

Insatiable in desire,

Swallowing and swallowing,

It fails to tire,

Unthinking, beastly, feral,

Not bound by hire.

#Victor tries to actually do poetry #Victor's screaming #Hunger

Funeral

Don't host a funeral for me.

Why host a party about me, knowing I can't come?

Say what you love about me now

I want to hear them from you properly.

Tell me, if you cared, why?

Tell me, would you cry if I died?

Don't go to a funeral

Not one for me.

Don't host a funeral

Just toss my body in the sea.

Don't host a funeral for me

Unless there's going to be cake

No point moping about at some shitty party

For a dead person's sake.

#Victor tries to actually do poetry #Victor's screaming #Funeral

Dearest

Dearest, let me lay under you,

Gaze into a face loving and true

Shine your starry eyes on me,

And the most glorious colours do I see,

Lips so soft, a mouth so lovely,

A voice of the heavens, words of honey,

I am stuck on your face,

As you bless me with your grace.

Let me love you, Dearest please,

Let us belong to each other, put my mind at ease.

Dearest, you have me caught,

Trapped, who’d have thought?

Dearest, hear me, I am already yours,

You’ve entered my heart by its front doors,

I will climb in through a window if I must,

Through barriers and barricades I will thrust,

Trust me with your heart and let me please adore it,

Let me rely on it like my own as in my chest it'll sit.

#Victor tries to actually do poetry #Dearest

Who

It was never your fault.

Fate had bound your limbs

And commanded the vultures

To take the flesh off of your bones

And to eat you alive.

Who were they, starving birds,

To disobey a deity?

Who are you,

A dying bastard,

To live against God's will?

#Victor tries to actually do poetry #Who

Was that so hard?

Incredibly.

#Victor is a parent #Victor's tired

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