Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Action Poetry

Bitter shells and disdainful masks,
Surround this tragedy of a play.
The curtains are pulled back in pigtails,
To reveal soft eyes juxtaposed with a cruel grin.
Atrocities of cruelty, but not directly,
The worst hurt is made of silence, apathy, discontentment.
Since when did playing about the Maypole,
playing beneath the silken fabrics,
Turn into running about an impaling pole,
And jumping over such in fear of hurt?