Four letters, five. You're just like my child and I'll try my hardest to feed you wisdom
if you promise
not to spit it back up.
Kisses don't make the entire world better
but if it fixes your head, I'll kiss more.
I've never gotten stanzas quite
right
because sometimes I spend too long in one place and other times I
only spend the night.
You're unstable like the twin towers and I know that's harsh,
but your illnesses are tearing you apart
like planes, do you wonder who the people were and their
families? Their notebooks filled with words, little spots of blood from picking at their nails?
That's how mine are. Sometimes coffee stains, once in a while a tear
through the page from pressing down on my pen too hard. This is what a keyboard is for-
I don't need blood on my pages, but words mean more. Or do they?
I question that daily through texts and tea on my cell phone,
notebooks dusty under my feet with a leather strand braided to make it look neat
and spiritual. You're my baby.
I'll feed you love if you promise
not to spit it back up.