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Nothing Inside
by Lacy D PhillipsI have nothing but prose inside.
My poetry sounds like stubbed toes,
throws like a girl,
stoops to uninspiring lows,
drives slow in the fast lane,
clogs throats like peanut butter on cold days,
snags like toenails on fuzzy blankets,
rattles like dragging mufflers,
echoes like the drip of a leaky tap,
paces like a caged lion,
my poetry drags its feet,
oversleeps in the work week.
It never lands on all fours like an alley cat,
never scalds tongues like hot coffee,
never alarms like nearing sirens,
never comes to a rolling boil,
or floats decoratively on puddles like motor oil.
10/20/2004 Author's Note: It's there.
Posted on 10/20/2004
Copyright © 2025 Lacy D Phillips
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Ginette T Belle on 10/21/04 at 09:16 PM wow, wow...i love this...love the expressive similes you've used through out and the images they conjure..."my poetry drags its feet,oversleeps in the work week"...love that line |
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