is that what poetry has become? your eyes are like clouds her heart hurts roses and thorns- stop punishing me with your incompetence, with your ignorance, feel something and give it to me in more than one language. if i don't feel every syllable coursing through my body in all the wrong ways (you're a thunder storm, baby, you're a forest fire under a full moon) then it isn't worth my spit. give me something filthy. have a couple drinks and tell me how raw you feel then. peel back each layer of your broken soul and show me what you got. it's not about love, it's not about lust, it's about how deep you can dig when you know you're about to hit rock bottom. give me something filthy and write your name all over it. write my name, too.