Saturday, October 22, 2016


lost the gifts you gave me
then lost the car keys
then lost the phone

sat up until three a.m.
watching the children sleep

knew it wasn’t poetry, but
also knew that
poetry didn’t matter

words pounded into strange
new shapes when the
meaning was what really
mattered, and then
meaning obscured, and then
bitter truths left unsaid

obvious lies held out like
shields to
ward off the darkness
and i am not innocent here,
but i am not ready to
be found guilty

i am not ready to be sewn
up inside the corpse of
the bleeding horse

there is still so much
of my life i need to waste

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