Hey Fatso! - New Poem of a personal nature for you to read.

This is about me as I was growing up and the fears that we harbour and that make us who we are as we age. kids can be crule and my life growing up was nop exception.

Hey Fatso!

Is what I hear in my dreams

My twilight nightmares

When I awaken with screams

Hey Fatso!

You can’t be part of our team

Coz you’re too disgusting

And your pants bulge at the seam

Hey Fatso!

Why don’t you just go and die!

My tormentors did say

As I tried to smile and live a lie

Hey Fatso!

You’re never ever going to get laid

They screamed at me from afar

So home I went and my room I stayed

Hey Fatso!

Are you looking at me!

I am far too pretty.

For your eyes to see!

Hey Fatso!

Is that you hanging from a tree?

So you found a rope

To hold your weight I see.

Hey where is Fatso?

Who? Oh you mean what’s his name

He hung himself yesterday

Took himself out of the game.

Hey where is Graeme?

He passed the other day

Sick of the taunts and jibes

He could no longer stay

Hey!

That’s so sad I will shed a tear

He had so much to say

But now no-one will ever hear

Copyright - Graeme Hawke

Battles Past - New Poem for today I love an epic battle

This is my latest poem and it literally jumped out of me and on teh page within minutes. it was like I had to write this and I think I love it, tell me what you think.



Battles Past

The ground I see as I peer over the craggy cliff

Is covered with blood and viscera of war

With no clear winner except the blacksmith

They came in suits of mail and reflective sun

With plumes like the phoenix upon their helm

The metallic beasts slaughtered and blood run.

Giant steeds snorting fire from nostrils flared

Caused ground to quake and shudder as thunder

With dark dead eyes that their masters shared

Limbs hacked and sliced from torsos unbound

Men like rag dolls thrown and diced in the air

Body parts met each other again upon the ground

The fetid breath of the reaper as he arrived to reap

Was to overpowering to some as they fled

But only into the wrath of a waiting traitors heap

Heads like overripe melons discarded by a grocer

As he inspects the contents within to ensure ripeness

Only to find the insides rotten as he looks closer

The stench of death and blood spilled copper

Is fast on the wind as it dances around the living

Giving the air thickness and oppression improper

Then as if by gods own will the noise of battle stops

The blanket of dead an eerie non living reminder

Bellow was a field of flowers with bright yellow tops

A silence descends and the wounded put to rest

The moans of men replaced by returning birds

Their whistles from on high as they return to the nest

To the victor, another day to die is granted to thee

To regroup, love and feed before the next push

They pray to a God for the ability of his wisdom to see

But what they hear a litany of verse and begotten lies

A story told to keep them on the front lines

As a little bit of their humanity each time dies

The metal warrior cleans and is tended to by serf

Knowing one day his time will be up at last

And he can finally with honour lie upon the earth

Copyright - Graeme Hawke