If I called all of your bluffs out loud,
we’d be here for months, and
my voice would waste away
to a bitter nothing.
But I need these pipes, and
ain't nobody got that kind of time to spare.
So I’ll smile and quietly
call each of those bluffs to myself.
In gentle whispers, I’ll trim the fat,
and slowly examine the parts of you
that make sense.
I’ll soon notice that
my salt pile’s used up from taking a pinch
with each and every thing you say.
I would replenish it, but
I’m feeling too cheap, and
it seems the rest
of the sweethearts out there
need those grains more than I do.
Don’t you worry though—
this kind of cheap looks good on me.
See, I am so sick of being thirsty
and aching for that
truth
like
honey.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
If I called all of your bluffs out loud,
we’d be here for months, and
my voice would waste away
to a bitter nothing.
But I need these pipes, and
ain't nobody got that kind of time to spare.
So I’ll smile and quietly
call each of those bluffs to myself.
In gentle whispers, I’ll trim the fat,
and slowly examine the parts of you
that make sense.
I’ll soon notice that
my salt pile’s used up from taking a pinch
with each and every thing you say.
I would replenish it, but
I’m feeling too cheap, and
it seems the rest
of the sweethearts out there
need those grains more than I do.
Don’t you worry though—
this kind of cheap looks good on me.
See, I am so sick of being thirsty
and aching for that
truth
like
honey.
© Bitsy Sanders, January 2014
Request permission to use this poem