the great verses would prefer it if you didn't attempt to commit their curves to memory,
they croak at the idea of becoming stuck in the empty vessel that is your head, only to wither away into a few words short than what was originally said.
they would prefer it if your eyes didn't insist on gazing over them, as you untangle the knots of their secrets like some drunken buffoon who has ****** their fortune at the nearby saloon,
clumsily, you attempt to unzip their threads into a plausible meaning.
or even worse, determine value based on the fluidity of rhyming words or the vertical lines which slice their way down the blank white of paper, forming jagged mountains of letters one must painstakingly traverse.
it goes without saying, they cringe at your touch as you awkwardly stumble your fingers down the skin of their spine, like some graceless ****** who has mastered the art of spilling onto the unkept floor,
they prefer instead the presence of a curious girl, making her way towards a window, where she can add meaning to thought.
or to remain housed on the shelf next to their brothers and sisters, to entice strangers who don't easily roll into the company of suppressed yawns, to hear their stories.
for these words cant pick their company like you or me, you have already begun to make a mess of this one you see, unless you are of course some curious girl next to a window.