If I could
I would write novels about this black hole in my head
about how it manages to twist every horrid thing into
poetic drops of pain.
even that makes it seem better
There's nothing beautiful about the way these scars healed.
About the pain of feeling again
No beauty in the way the skin benath my eyes grows bruised,
purple and green.
Certainly there's nothing sweet about your drunken texts
exceot maybe the taste of what you're drinking.
And darling, I love comparing sad songs but
why are we still sad
after sixteen and nineteen years of the same patterns?
I wish it was poetic
the way you still haunt my subconscious
and how I flinch at the mention of your name;
at the sight of yours and my old friends.
I wish poetry could suture the still bleeding wounds your words left on my insides.
But no one will listen
if I just sit here and talk about how my craft lies about its
So the only thing I can do
is write my original idea:
flowery language about the perils of life
in effort to evoke some tug of emotion at my audience's chest.