the worst thing I’ve ever done
was letting the world
know that I write,
it’s not the 2am phone calls
asking if I’m okay,
it’s not the regret of
of relationships or
the running away,
it’s the look in my mothers
eyes when I write about dying,
it’s the regard to kin
when holding certain
emotions in,
forging positivity
and relaying
the antiquities
of struggle,
the minuscule
moments of will
drill into minds
painting all kinds
of doubtful abstracts,
creating spousal transacts
of how to fix their son,
it’s not the questions
about what I mean when I
say my skin spits goose flesh
or my eyes wrap yesterday
in spruce mesh that
eventually frays,
it’s the days where
I get kindred
phone calls
wondering if I’ll pick up
because of writing
the night before
stating that
I’m skating
on thin ice,
I dont want them to worry
I’ll be fine,
but for now it’s the pen
that has to unwind
the noose from
confining words
I refuse to say.

divided by classes the Knight first
then....the miller interrupts, telling his tale,
and the Virgilian concern of audience is suspended
wandering between the sects, crossing the dividing lines,
and the puzzle gets along quite really uniquely with the sides
not done before matching the middles,
and whether ***** or my lady is used as a nomenclature,
like pitee may mean one  thing to the wealthy aristocracy,
where it also refers to ****** *******, or "*******", and at times
the merchant or the lower class exhibit, depending on your mores,
more subtlety and class.
And I am am and was among the pardoners. And purchased absolution.
And who may hold me accountable , but history?

to eat more oats and drink less Barley
and plant more wheat and **** more duck
or walk more at sunrise and forgive more my
neighbor, I may need to be forgiven , and in
that quest I cast the first stone and forgive
that sum ***** I caught with my wife in the wheat field
sowing his oats and drinking barley
ducking the stones I cast his way
******* my wife
in the rising sun and the field
i owned