Unbeautiessness Glorified

Your face is that of death,
complemented nicely by the rankness of your breath.
Your hair, a mass of writhing worms
rings your pug ugly head
in a way so far from beauty
it could turn gold back into lead.
Your body, in all its twisted, blasted, blistering pain,
pales in comparison to your poisonous, treacherous, lecherous brain.
Flowers wither and wilt in fright,
then die at your ungodly sight.
The sun would cease to shine at dawn,
if it knew what utter ugliness it had to shine upon.
Satan himself would run screaming back to hell,
and count his blessings too,
at not having to spend another
tortured moment with you.
No offense.

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2 Responses

  1. reading this gave me a fun memory of how much Mrs. Miller L-O-V-E-D you! 🙂 Did you write it, and if so, who is it about?

  2. Rachel,
    Everything I posted is mine, including this one. I don’t think I had anyone particular in mind when I wrote this. If I did, I’ve forgotten.
    I was actually remembering Mrs Miller’s class, too, while I was going through all my old poetry from high school (especially when I came across my ‘Top 10 signs Mrs Miller didn’t get enough oxygen last night’.
    I though about posting some of my Mr. Sheldon derivative works, too, but decided against it, since they aren’t that funny unless you happen to hate Mr. Sheldon as I did at the time.
    Good times, eh?

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