the things i never look at
are the things i touch with one, two
hands -
i wish they held meaning but i dont
even know how to tell stories let alone
hold on with both hands
while i fall down, down, down
despair is like a broken hose,
an overflowing well; my cup runneth
over, my heart cracks in two; the
seams of my lips bleed; my stomach
growls in anger for i havent fed
it in days and only lies have passed my lips,
lies i love, lies that keep me warm.
this ring is not a symbol.
i bought it because its pretty, because
the stainless steel wont mar my fragile skin.
the sentiment is a useless reminder
but a deterrent for men who see me as a
set of weighty legs and a pretty face.
it says hope, but i have none.
do you? or is it ture that, if i fail,
i am better of dead, crushed by what
i could have done if i wasnt so tired
of being the same person for an entire lifetime?
ESTÁS LEYENDO
To Be Determined
PoesíaBook 4 of seemingly endless poetry (or should I say possibilities?) Some poems are real life, some are not. Think before you assume.
