Ivy's poetry

Morning swells,
Like the fetid stench of sewer gas,
And strips my ego,
Into pea-green plastic strips,
Which I feed on at breakfast.
Then I chew on my faults,
Until my skin has puckered,
So you’ll run at the sight of me,
And I can cry myself to sleep,
Because I like the taste of my tears,
In the morning.

All copyrights are acknowledged and those remain the property of the owners. Also these pages contain my opinions (unless otherwise specified), and thus, does not reflect the beliefs of others. The Garden of the Black Rose and its related pages are copyrighted (c)1998 by Ivy McKnight .