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I've been chasing you forever
broken hearts left behind
love smoke in fingers never
a real ghost I will ever find.
You don't have to be clever.
You don't need to rhyme.
You have to be honest.
You need courage to
write truth upon pages
for others to read and
risk their judgement.
Favored or reviled.
Both have sharp edges.
Poets are never innocent.
poems scattered around the room
in my never ending fool's errand
as poet laureate of Watercolor's
perfect world of happy accidents.
We drool and weep out of context
but scratch a portrait of Sexton
dead in her car in the garage.
We copy Plath's ****** scene of
geese escaping winter to warmth.
We endure cures of our lobotomies.
Brilliant light was smothered.
Grey men 4 years old on knees.
We would do well to die before our dreams.
  I leer where once I aroused, an old fool.
  How do I limp to my finish line? Help me
  know my place now that I've packed my life
  in boxes. I yearn for my big sins. Where is
  lust's object of desire? Where is my ******?
Picasso Dali Escher Dylan,
     The force that through the
     green fuse drives the flower
     drives my green youth
     is my destroyer. Life Story.
     Black ink portraits of me
     begging for colors corpses
     whiter shades of pale.
A ****** horror show
  promises of death's door
  anchors pretend to know
  we believe but we ignore.
I'll drink your poison tonight.
It was not your fault but mine.
Forgive me but you can't because
you don't know how. Maybe in my
mourning I'll nail me to your cross
and die for you one final time.
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