I'm packing on new days like a fine layer of moth wing dust.
Please treat me gently.
I may seem ugly.
But.
Regardless.
I might be beautiful in your hands?
Maybe a delicacy to some in other parts of the world.
Or a pest.
I can fly when I want to.
I can bite you when you sleep.
You can easily squash me, smoosh me or preserve me in a jar.
I'm attracted to your glow, though.
Be gentle, fucker.
I'm really lovin' the poetry of the last few posts. You must be one hurtin' mutherfucker to write that.
ReplyDeleteMy dad was a poet once upon a time.
He tells me whenever I feel that heartache, that loss, that emptiness - THAT is when you write poetry.
He said, "Hell, there's not one single poem written by a happy person that's worth a fuck!"
Sorry you're hurtin', but at least keep writing, here or following the old ways of parchment and papyrus.
I've been doing a lot of both lately.
Be well.
I knew you were gay for me, but I didn't know you were this gay!
ReplyDelete