It Was Her Fault

A spooky Halloween treat……..

Underneath the table saw.
Fingers in the dust,
writing as they must,
on and on and on.

But what soul shall see –
my secret there,
upon the wood shop floor?
Hidden for eternity,
her cold dark stare,
the bloody fingerless whore.

She screams and cries
with her nubby little hands,
she ups and dies
fulfilling her plans
no whats or whys
or rubber bands
to hold them all together.

And I left that 9th grade shop,
with my rickety birdhouse in tow,
pieces falling off,
as far as I could go.

And when arrived I did declare,
with little wood left to compare,
“it was the whore’s fault.”

Always was.
Always will be.
As her fingers write eternally.

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© 2014 John Allen Richter
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About johnallenrichter

I am an aspiring Poet and adorer of life, a conqueror of nothing. However I am a champion curator of truth and friendship and hold both of those things most dearly to my heart. Welcome to my mind's eye. I hope you will enjoy what you may find and please know that you have a friend here. View all posts by johnallenrichter

4 responses to “It Was Her Fault

  • johnallenrichter

    It’s actually much more innocent than it appears. Though admittedly I mired it deeply in symbolism, and perhaps a touch of cynicism. The poem is about a human tendency to blame outside sources for their failures. – Daddy didn’t play catch with me enough, or momma didn’t hug me enough. Wah wah wah! It seems that internalizing ones responsibilities is becoming less and less important these days, especially when it becomes increasingly easier to blame someone or some-thing else.

    And when I look at people like you, sweet friend, and see the hurdles passed and setbacks again and again, and think of how easy it could have been for you to blame someone else. But you didn’t do that. You’ve striven, you’ve lived – you’ve climbed over a mountain of excuses to become not only productive but happy and fulfilled. That sweet Willow is the key.

    The ugliness of this poem is meant to be the reflection of irresponsibility, something I think you seldomly see.

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