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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Other · #1454518
I'd never attempted poetry before because, frankly I could never take it seriously.
Sliding Doors

Turmoil in transit;
A strange catastrophe.
Unbearable, to stand it.
If they were to look at me.

An occasion most unpleasant,
This stirringly ill air.
An Envious omnipresent.
Adorned with a hateful glare.

A sound due from creator,
Is the clue to prove I’ve sinned.
When stuck in an elevator.
And I’ve recently broke wind.

All the grim glances darted,
The groans of sickened peers,
“I can’t believe he farted”
Are the words that meet my ears.

My guilty eyes begin to close,
My luck I can’t believe.
But with relief, I use my nose.
As we reach our floor, and leave.

© Copyright 2008 John Smith (deplorable at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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