Mr. Bills

Mr. Bills prose poem

Photo by rklopfer

Last week, on the only day it rained, he hit me. Hit me so hard as I fell to the ground I asked myself will this be his last time? I saw colors, all dark shades and hues. Dark blues, purples – more like beet reds; some turned brown after healing. This one makeup couldn’t hide, no more butterflies when I saw him only flashes of red indicating to me that I should run because he was dangerous. But I didn’t. Don’t ask why. I’ve been bamboozled, tricked into doing the unthinkable – staying…here. You see, Bills loves me… He tells me every day in the only way he knows love. WITH HIS FIST. Nonetheless, I’ve grown to expect a hit, even when I’ve done everything right from day to night. I remember crying hot tears of fear. There are no tears left, you can only hear my screams and after a while those too fade as my throat raws. I’ve made it home now. Bills is gone now. He’s left and I’m the only one who knows wherever he’s gone this time he’ll stay. How can I be so sure of this? I’ll never say. Nobody looks for him. He wasn’t a good man, husband, or friend.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

On Mr. John Milton’s Comus

On Mr. John Milton’s Comus short poem

For Lord’s exultant installation thou Singest for the performance at Ludlow, Of greatest Virtue that high Heav’n bestows On mansions virgin demoiselles doth house, That no temptation could utterly soil, No evil spirit ever durst to foil, Nor Circe’s son

With Mr. Jones (collaborations—’11)

With Mr. Jones (collaborations—11) short poem

(Line for line… tit for tat.) 1. My house is kind of small —but bigger than my kitchen And in my kitchen there’s a lamp —that’s bigger than my fist Please don’t touch the dog’s food bowl —only I touch

Mr. Officer

Mr. Officer short poem

I ask you to look my soul Not my color because that is a shade of my temple I beg for you to reach for my heart before it stands still For years to come after the action comes to

Mr. Stubborn…

Mr. Stubborn... ode

With a sinking heart he compiled All the memories that are scattered behind He resigned from his past and assign himself for the mankind Jogging on the road of prosperity and snoop in the ways of wind It was just

Mr. Mischief

Mr. Mischief short poem

There’s a man called Mr. Mischief, He tickles you till you cry out, Or puts pepper in your handkerchief and makes you have a sneezing bout, He hides your pencil under your pillow, He also hid my book, ‘Wind in