Paige Nielsen Poems
|43.||Who Are You?||10/22/2009|
|44.||Bound And Gagged By My Own Insecurities||4/30/2009|
|46.||A Question About Myself||4/1/2009|
|47.||Addictive And Titillating||4/6/2009|
|48.||Best Friends Forever?||4/1/2009|
|50.||Talk About Love||4/1/2009|
|51.||Ode To Bukowski||4/1/2009|
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 ...
I went to your funeral
dressed in my favorite pair of jeans.
The mourners whispered sharply, even though
I dyed them to make them extra black.
I didn't cry.
I felt numb as the chill rain fell.
The fog imbued a sense of fleeting.
Solitude-standing by a grave,
your name was on it.