Now I know **** well....

Did he pull the chicken out?

... ... ... I was finna say.

There once was a chicken
and there was once a hawk
the hawk would talk
non stop
about his ability of flight
his speed his force
he'd talk so long
the chicken would bash his head against the door

The chicken hated the hawk
hated listening to him talk
the chicken wanted to beat the hawk
so he would no longer have to hear him talk
and then the Rocky music played
as the chicken flapped his wings
up steps sliced out in the sky
till he would reach the top then dive

the chicken became very good at this
though not as good as the hawk
and when the hawk won the race
he would just continue to talk and talk
the chick was sick of it
he fled to his own getaway
feeding on solely chocolate
and liters of gatorade

The chicken consumed
until he couldn't see his toes
he stumbled out his front door
where man found him
unaware of his past
caring just for the fire and not the wood
why the Hawk is fast
and the Chicken tastes good

A decade from now,
            My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want
            To pick at anymore.

I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to,
And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken
That wouldn’t know to look both ways,
Causing a six car pileup,
But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to.

Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,
            And ten years down the road
            Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath
            As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure
            Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun.

I don’t like to think about it,
But I’ve entertained the idea
That perhaps I will neglect my words,
            Letting all the quatrains pass me by.

Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:
            With no periods
            But a blank space
                        Where your name should be.

I’d like to think that someday
            I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore
I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to,
Not to fill this void I made
When I handed out my consonance like candy
            And scattered similes in the air like skittles
            During that drought we had a while ago
When everything was black and white
And I thought everybody wanted
A taste of the colors I’m made of.

I like to entertain the thought that someday

Someday
            People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words
            And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.
            Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,
            Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,
            And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.

            They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:
            A passenger seat,
            The floor by a bathroom,
            A stairwell,
            Under a tree.

I know that some might try to find the cause of death.
In fact,
I know they will.

But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth,
The only meaning behind all my metaphors,
I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much.

When it hurt too much
To just write-

I love you.