[stylist] the iceing on the cake

[Justin.Williams2]

I' read it at wome point soon; I'm curious.  My favorite icing is the
vanilla kind.

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Andi
Sent: Wednesday, May 23, 2012 8:17 PM
To: 'Writer's Division Mailing List'
Subject: [stylist] the iceing on the cake

I have decided to submit a poem to the list.  When you read it please keep
in mind I am normally a positive person but this poem was me venting.  Also
the words spelt wrong are not wrong in the context of this poem, I mean the
words the way they are written.  Another thing to consider is the fact that
my poems are free flow, I do not know how to write and rewrite and revise
poetry the way I do with stories.  I wish I could because I could save a lot
more of my poems but my poems always lose their creativity when I try to
revise them.  So the only editing I do is spelling and punctuation
placement.  I realize that this means my poems will always be amateur and
rough but if I do it any other way I end up having to pitch it.  When I
write stories I revise them over and over and over again but my poems just
are.
I will attach it and paste it in to the body of the email so everyone can
read it however they want.


The iceing on the cake


He bakes a cake to fool us all,
With sweet sugar to hide the bitter taste, With flower to soften the hard
certainty, And candy pieces to distract from our missing parts.
He measures, pours, and stirs,
He mixes and folds,
We don't even remember the poison that "spilled,"
In to the batter
is so smooth,
And it smells so good.
Yes he baked us a cake,
He spoon-fed us a taste,
Hear and Their,
When we understood his plot,
He'd let the sugar mask intentions,
Let our eyes fill with joy,
Let our minds wonder,
Were we wrong?
Does he care?
Maybe we misjudged him again?
Or maybe he changed.
We would smile and wave,
Play his little game,
Make him look good while he assembled his cake.
We peer through layers of deceit of desert, At ourselves in the glass and
what do we see?
We were just the ends to his means.
We sort through our confection battered lives, For some shred of truth, Some
bit of love, Some core of sincerity, Some, Some, Some anything, But we were
all fools, Wanting to believe, That he might help us, or be their in a time
of need, We wanted to think that he baked for us, But we make up the layers,
Our shattered hearts and broken dreams, He crushed, ground, and sifted, But
we didn't want to se.
We stand looking at the cake and know what he did, We hope that we're wrong,
We try to believe, Then he brings out the iceing, So cold and and detached,
He spreads it on thick, He smiles and laughs, But we feel the chill, We take
a step back, We know that it's over, What ever we had, He can't be trusted,
He isn't our dad.