Dignifiedly poems on Hello Poetry

Kenz Sep 2012

She walks delicately,
carefully, easily.
Right on by you.
She talks quietly,
beautifully, gracefully.
Right next to you.
Quickly she locks you in.

She whispers seductively,
huskily, sexily.
Right into your ear.
She says sweet things,
cute things, great things.
Straight to you.
And now she's getting through.

Her heels clack.
He nearly spat.
But all you do is stare.
The way she talks is planned.
The way she walks--rehearsed.
All those things were petty lies.
But it's too late.

She smiles cutely,
quickly, embarrassed.
Just to get to you.
She blushes deeply,
innocently, easily.
While getting ready for you.
She has got you chained now.

She acts timidly,
shyly, less boldly.
To get closer to you.
She treats you well,
kindly, graciously.
Just to lie to you.
She's got you begging.

Her heels clack.
He nearly spat.
But all you do is stare.
The way she talks is planned.
The way she walks--rehearsed.
All those things were petty lies.
But it's too late.

She holds your heart frighteningly,
tightly, brightly.
Making her own you.
She looks strong,
powerful, unforgettable.
Showing herself to you.
And now you see through it all.

She steps lightly,
passionately, happily.
Over to you.
She seems cruel,
evil, sinister.
Having played you.
Too bad it's nearly the end.

Her heels clack.
He nearly spat.
But all you do is stare.
The way she talks is planned.
The way she walks--rehearsed.
All those things were petty lies.
But it's too late.

She holds herself dignifiedly,
highly, gloriously.
As she brings the knife to you.
She cuts deeply,
thrillingly, chillingly.
Straight into you.
If only you had known.

She moves smoothly,
willingly, cutely.
Right on by you.
She is biter,
sinister, crazy.
As she continues.
And it restarts, nothing new.

I loved the idea for this poem. It really was really fun to write. The violence that I wrote was unplanned for but completely fun!

Norbert Tasev Jul 28

PILATE'S HANDWASHERS

It would be good to extend our arms towards each other a little more nobly, more dignifiedly, so that we can guard the silence that longs to open in each other; halfway between the stigmata of bodies, to touch the slaps that have become unworthy, the petty formations of bandages and scars. Because the surprised Being betrays its own hidden Apocryphal essences, its calculating secrets, at almost every age.

We do not know where the budding love morning flees from us with its broken wings, when everything still seems so clear and simple. Sooner or later – we do not even notice it – the innocent, orphaned child in us always denies itself first, and only later the adult who seems absolute, presenting himself as a victim. Because when evil, manipulative, calculating things and connections arise above our heads, it is as if others were already writing the rules of our Fate for us.

– Conscience – no matter how much we want it – now only protects us formally, like most of the official but burnable documents that the historical era has entrusted to us as witnesses. Even now, it seems that slimy, sticky dirt and secretions stick to it from hand to hand; so wash your useless, crusty hands with baby soap several times; do not accept easily received alms! All thieves, idle jerks and fools, Pilate's hand-washers of compromises, who sold themselves with a calm heart, because they knew that otherwise, those who got stuck here could not prevail.

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