The Poem Whimpered
I could see the poem wriggling its wrists,
tied behind it on the chair it was sitting in,
not yet panicking but clearly uncomfortable,
the rope burning its flesh.
“God damn it,” I shouted at the poem,
swinging the rubber hose at my side.
“You’re going to be lyrical and profound,
or I’m going to make you suffer!”
The poem whimpered.
Horror Sleaze Trash 