Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I?

No longer could I doubt him true;
All other men may use deceit:
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.

like a dog, who's been hit
maybe one too many times,
maybe just once, but too hard
i sit at your feet.

throw me a bone and i'll lick your face
all the while being terrified you'll do it again.

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
******* of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

Here's to life's forbidden fruit
and the passes we never make,
to the relationships lost before being gained
and the kisses we forget to taste

Here's to a glass not quite half empty
but a little less than half full,
to the voice that steals our confidence away
and the strings the puppeteers pull

Here's to the fun that will never be had
for the sake of being safe,
to a life meant to be lived to the fullest
that turns out to be a waste

And lastly, here's to all the tomorrows
that will never come to pass,
and to every promise of a forever
that never seems to last.

The four corners of the first line.
The blank thick walls of horizontal  verbs,
Squat squashed and dumped
In forced familiarity;
Layer upon airless layer.
A grim determined construction
In my neglected back yard of a page
This concrete shed of a poem