I used to be a good listener
Now, "I'm sure I've heard that before."
Arguing with Eros, arrogant, erudite.
At odds with his arrows. Even angry.
Bumping numbered reminders of the
Year I was leaving behind,
Headed for the hyphen.
Orange gunk, proper circumstance, and
Cagey, coughing.
"I want to be
Soaked in style, and left
Drying on a dusty line. See...
"I'm an ugly mother ******
But my eyes are alive.
And the tragically beautiful's
All I've got left."
Killing, time and
Battery life, requesting
The chance to
Breathe in my city.
The edges of a crucifix
Etched into his visage.
Looking for good luck, and
"That USA Gold taste,
To remind you of home," in India.
Walking away from a car crash.
Not heavy, dry,
But frozen solid.
Trekking on, past beautiful women that are
Painting their walls.
Poems, pouring from the
Mouths of the desperate,
Echo down the alleys.
"I'm not sure to whom belong these bones,
'Cuz they sure as hell ain't mine." But
Remember? That December? We
Bled blue and silver,
Sledding down seven-foot snow banks, and
Kicked out for stepping on toes.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
I used to be a good listener
Now, "I'm sure I've heard that before."
Arguing with Eros, arrogant, erudite.
At odds with his arrows. Even angry.
Bumping numbered reminders of the
Year I was leaving behind,
Headed for the hyphen.
Orange gunk, proper circumstance, and
Cagey, coughing.
"I want to be
Soaked in style, and left
Drying on a dusty line. See...
"I'm an ugly mother ******
But my eyes are alive.
And the tragically beautiful's
All I've got left."
Killing, time and
Battery life, requesting
The chance to
Breathe in my city.
The edges of a crucifix
Etched into his visage.
Looking for good luck, and
"That USA Gold taste,
To remind you of home," in India.
Walking away from a car crash.
Not heavy, dry,
But frozen solid.
Trekking on, past beautiful women that are
Painting their walls.
Poems, pouring from the
Mouths of the desperate,
Echo down the alleys.
"I'm not sure to whom belong these bones,
'Cuz they sure as hell ain't mine." But
Remember? That December? We
Bled blue and silver,
Sledding down seven-foot snow banks, and
Kicked out for stepping on toes.
My poems aren't usually so liberal with the usage of the word "I," but consider this a soliloquy of sorts.
