Paige Nielsen Poems
The fear is absolute:
faces pale as the milk of death,
the inverse of the milk of human kindness.
A haunting sorrow binds the wounds,
enslaving us in its hollowest embrace.
This poem is a metaphor,
but I don’t know why.
I don’t know anything.
These days right is wrong and wrong is right.
Is this someone’s idea of a joke?
Well, buddy, I’m not laughing.
I’m retching in protest,
a one-girl revolution.
Can anybody save us now?
(I doubt it.)
We’re all chained by propriety
and blinded by society,
trading kisses for pennies
and chopping ...
A Question About Myself
Life bites like a vampire bat,
and changeling is my middle name.
The old blind man plays the blues,
shades of cerulean, sky, navy, and charcoal.
Proof is in the state of mind;
belief that death is paternal figure.
He whispers in my ear: always, always,
but it's a lie, because they always, always LEAVE.
The cross you bear is what I refuse.