more.bad.poetry

where awkward private thoughts become public knowledge.


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Jukebox Girl

Push that quarter in, now –
Push it way down deep;
My songs are so ethereal,
But always come dirt cheap.

Someone touch my buttons, now,
Someone make me spin;
I’m that something fun to do
After six shots with your friends.

I’m the kind of thing you remember
Sometime later the next day,
Just some sort of hazy cloud
Of good times in your brain

I go quiet, I sit still,
Sadness in the dark until
Darkness brings them all back in –
Just a quarter, push it in.


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Storm

Hard came the rains; rumbling thunder overhead shook the house.

The glass in the windows shook menacingly and threatened to shatter and scatter onto the dark floor.

Clouds colored dusky gray blocked out the once visible scattering of stars. Not even the moon, powered by sunlight, could shine through.

As the storm continued the roof sagged under the weight of the water and then shook violently. Creak, shake, creak, shake.

Hours passed with the house swaying in the storm; attacked on all fronts by an invisible enemy. A surprise attack on an unfortified structure.

But then more hours passed, and the thunder gave way to grumpy rumblings. The rain became lazy and slow. The dark clouds were pinpointed with glimpses of a shining night sky; you could just make out the outline and faint glow of the moon.

The storm subsided, finally, and the house stood proudly in triumph. Windows can be replaced, the roof built stronger.