Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2013
as late as it gets,
this would make the
fifth or fiftieth orbit in the cycle
a closer pattern; you know
i can't help but
keep trackmarks of these things,
the collective foolishnesses
we stock up and hold
ourselves like hostages at the
hand of-

of course:
it ain't your fault,
life like this just
aches a little too much,
a life of ingratiated and
incapitulating desperation always
suited me just fine but,
sugar,
right now,
i need something more to
keep me from
wanting to breathe less,
like i've been doing,
the past however-long
you've taken up residency
inside of me.

in a small town,
i'm too caught up in transit
to ever be able to
light fires, like you could be.
i know you'd never hurt me, but you still tore me apart,
just like i asked.

all i make are eternal apologies.
Tom McCone
Written by
Tom McCone  Wellington
(Wellington)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems