Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1984131
Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Dark · #1984131
A poem about refinement at it's worst.

He used to beat me to the rhythm
of an iambic pentameter
but I never knew which poem
went through his mind as he
bruised mine.

He drank port and listened to opera
and screamed at me in time to
either Bartok or Wagner.

He was refined in his abuse
but I never did appreciate it,
not like he wanted, not the Dante
or the Fouette kicks.

I appreciate books,
now they're not being
smashed against my skull.

© Copyright 2014 ren is an anxious geek (anxiousgeek at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1984131