I miss the type of poetry that
Stirred fire and beget rage upon me
And those who happened to stumble
Upon the things I've carelessly
Strolled into when the weather got cold.
Cigarettes who once kept me warm
Now hold stones at my grave
And oh they laugh for it is not me they
Seek and I envy
The next patron over.
That is the type of words I miss.
I'm sick of that little girl
Sneeking her way into my soul
Even when it's bright outside
And I'm hidden in my own sort of
Shadows.
I yearn for her to disappear among
The midnight movie goers and
****** who just need a little extra cash.
If it weren't for the ***** I'd oblige.
Alas. She once spoke of me in tongues
Known only to me. I think.
Pathological lies dont, never have, done well during
December parade marches and streets.
But that was just me.
I miss poetry that doesn't make sense.
I miss it and yearn to retrieve it.
But she has my head thinking
In block formations.
I have to get out of this town.