Post by xunpredictablel on Apr 3, 2010 13:04:45 GMT -5
|Title| To a Mother and an Outlaw, from Childish Intrigue.
|Rating| R
|Theme| I'm bouncing ideas off of myself for an epic poem. It's an enticing thought. This came up when I thought about it.
There is this thing
called lust, my daughter.
It's not something horrid, nor
is it worse than the lot
of them say.
It's something natural,
something animal and
pure, and others will fool you,
tell you that it's a lure
to the worse things, to the wrong things,
but my dear, as long as you're careful,
As long as you're safe,
Then it's not something to necessarily regret
nor is it to hate.
I cannot say I approve, but
it's because you're my daughter,
My only dear girl. I can tell you that out of all
these things, lust is a dangerous tool.
Please, let me tell you - it's something to
avoid, but once you're old enough to get it,
it can be enjoyed.
Sometimes it helps the body and
sometimes it helps the mind,
but oftentimes you'll wonder
if you'd rather leave it all behind and let
me tell you, dear one, that you'll want to
through and through
but sometimes lust is an addiction
that one just can't get through.
but i promise you, my daughter,
if you need me to intervene,
i will do my best to infer my
judgement on you and your
life.
Mother, I'm telling you now,
lust is something evil
and if we were meant as animals,
god would have made us so.
Mother - how could you imply
that something so questionable
could be okay in your eyes?
It sickens me to know
that your own ways are set
like that, but how can you tell me to know
that I'll end up like that?
I'm working so hard to get somewhere,
struggling in the life
of a worried single daughter
for her mother's dear welfare.
I reach and touch your face,
pallid with desire, with disease and
what has transpired.
But you pull back and away,
into your old backpack
and the stains within it you've packed.
I'm not working toward survival, of the mind or of the soul.
I'm working at the physical, of the day-to-day mundo -
I'm trying hard to stay like this, practical and alarmed
Worried about my future children, playing off the charms
of men-
What of you, o, mother, with your dreadful single ways?
You're working with men like crazy,
to beat away your haze.
You tell me lust is fine,
with hazelnut appease,
but then you turn and polish them -
the dark and skinne'd knees.
I want to show you now, that cleanliness is wrong -
even with your cleanliness, the men are still forlorn
when you're not at work, when you're not willing to
importune your childish sexy charms that
father men disarm.
Mother and a daughter,
of total disregard.
The poisoned southern angel
and her hippie family charm.
Mother of the ages, single and worked out-
desperate for another way to tone things down.
Daughter thinks of better, of dreamy things of late -
mother is so tired that she doesn't dream that late.
Hands and lips are tangled, twisted in the vines of
forgetting family ties just to get ahead.
Hips and hair are lucky - to pull and push and tease
but brains and lanes are faster than could know your knees.
You tumble and you fall, with broken bones and dreams-
the family ties all broken, dangled at the precipice.
and once you need them back, they simply come back
less.
|Rating| R
|Theme| I'm bouncing ideas off of myself for an epic poem. It's an enticing thought. This came up when I thought about it.
There is this thing
called lust, my daughter.
It's not something horrid, nor
is it worse than the lot
of them say.
It's something natural,
something animal and
pure, and others will fool you,
tell you that it's a lure
to the worse things, to the wrong things,
but my dear, as long as you're careful,
As long as you're safe,
Then it's not something to necessarily regret
nor is it to hate.
I cannot say I approve, but
it's because you're my daughter,
My only dear girl. I can tell you that out of all
these things, lust is a dangerous tool.
Please, let me tell you - it's something to
avoid, but once you're old enough to get it,
it can be enjoyed.
Sometimes it helps the body and
sometimes it helps the mind,
but oftentimes you'll wonder
if you'd rather leave it all behind and let
me tell you, dear one, that you'll want to
through and through
but sometimes lust is an addiction
that one just can't get through.
but i promise you, my daughter,
if you need me to intervene,
i will do my best to infer my
judgement on you and your
life.
Mother, I'm telling you now,
lust is something evil
and if we were meant as animals,
god would have made us so.
Mother - how could you imply
that something so questionable
could be okay in your eyes?
It sickens me to know
that your own ways are set
like that, but how can you tell me to know
that I'll end up like that?
I'm working so hard to get somewhere,
struggling in the life
of a worried single daughter
for her mother's dear welfare.
I reach and touch your face,
pallid with desire, with disease and
what has transpired.
But you pull back and away,
into your old backpack
and the stains within it you've packed.
I'm not working toward survival, of the mind or of the soul.
I'm working at the physical, of the day-to-day mundo -
I'm trying hard to stay like this, practical and alarmed
Worried about my future children, playing off the charms
of men-
What of you, o, mother, with your dreadful single ways?
You're working with men like crazy,
to beat away your haze.
You tell me lust is fine,
with hazelnut appease,
but then you turn and polish them -
the dark and skinne'd knees.
I want to show you now, that cleanliness is wrong -
even with your cleanliness, the men are still forlorn
when you're not at work, when you're not willing to
importune your childish sexy charms that
father men disarm.
Mother and a daughter,
of total disregard.
The poisoned southern angel
and her hippie family charm.
Mother of the ages, single and worked out-
desperate for another way to tone things down.
Daughter thinks of better, of dreamy things of late -
mother is so tired that she doesn't dream that late.
Hands and lips are tangled, twisted in the vines of
forgetting family ties just to get ahead.
Hips and hair are lucky - to pull and push and tease
but brains and lanes are faster than could know your knees.
You tumble and you fall, with broken bones and dreams-
the family ties all broken, dangled at the precipice.
and once you need them back, they simply come back
less.
