I don't want to write about it
I don't want to think about it
I met another soul whose
heartbroke at birth and it
fused to mine--stuck, stuck
stuck, forever I was glued.
Forever, forever, forever
we constantly moaned that
word together, a child and
I, child who had seen
much and then needed,
needed, needed, needed
a crutch so then I took
hold, Oh, I took hold
Holding, Holding, Holding,
You really got a hold on me-
Baby, Lean on me,
Can't you see,
Can't you see me?
I'm leaning too far...
Going back--
I'll dance in the pink
that was the sweet everything
when my blue face planted nestled
in a pillow weeping, I wanted
no part of it, I wanted every
part of you back, I wanted
everything-too much--not enough.
My pallette satiated with your
complicated color-
But I desperately needed my
sweetest friend.
His emotional pull is like
a tide tugging and then swaddling
tucking under me--oh cynical
and cliche but, God, almighty
thoroughly loveable.
I don't want to write about it.
I don't want to think about it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Tickle your toes. . .
-
two squinting painted eyes looking solemn on a leathery face. this knight of the golden age has a 20 gallon bucket of a hat atop his slicked... -
to have sticky pins for fingertips and ballpoint pens for thumbs. then I could fascinate myself to you, and write away doldrums.
-
July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someone d...
-
July 9th i feel like running again. it's either that or swimming in a valley of tears. July 10th you couldn't tell by looking at us,...
-
Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
-
our silence comes easy and there is much to it the commingling of our fingers and the swapping of palm oils and the nimble saltation of ...
-
Out the window, I thought I saw Emily pale, gawking. a green T-shirt. bouncing firey springs on her head.
-
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but... -
husband and I trek a mile for ice cream just for the creamy banana, crunchy pecans, and chunks of thumb-sized chocolate. shoes flipping and...
-
The one downstairs. adjacent to the hall closet, but with an achingly tiny window. the walls were "powder" blue the towels had no ...
Poets United Contributor
No comments:
Post a Comment