I got something go say: When I'm alone
I want to think everything except you
but we know how that goes, I see the
mess I made, I see your mess and I
don't know which to clean first,
*
yours are the vestiges of Winter's
dead and bronzed leaves, even the blackthorn
are blooming, yours heal naturally
and grace the earth below
no scars left on your alabastar skin,
nothing shaking their pillars
*
well, honey, I have my messes
and ruinous, rusted, untidy machines
mine are junkyards, with smoke punching
the atmospheres and into bills unpaid,
torn up poetry books, holed soles
and broken windows and bloody fists
*
you live on my back and I still say
I'd rather kiss the sharp parts of your life
to make them dull, I rather taste
the cup of pain for you
and clean your messes-- they seem
so much easier to clean than mine
YOU ARE READING
bang bang!
Poetryyou know what would be more cool than a blank white cover with text on it? a blank white cover with a toy pistol on it, of course!
