locked-out blues

I was doing fine meeting
My words according to time
But the poetry written to save me
You wanted all of that and more
Keep me, collect me
Like the rare records on your shelf…

~*~

it’s careless,

the way i think.

your broken wings

don’t carry me far

but you’re a bad habit

and i’m an addict

with a song on my lips

and a smile on my lucky pen

and i could barely hold

a thought in my head

without shivering

at what it might do to me.

hold it apart and catch

the raindrops falling

on my open window,

writing poetry all

over the shadows of oak

bookcases, as i sit in

my empty bedroom

and conjure up a fiction.

there’s a blush

in my alabaster bones

unlike the ones in

my cheeks, trapped

in the midst of

a tedious ballet and

the infinite breaks of my

scratched vinyl records,

and i’ll cascade away again;

and i’m misty-eyed.

your arctic gaze is gentle and

obscured by plumes of

smoky cinnamon

take another quiet sip

of the words painted over

in an artist’s epoch,

and let me in…

let me in.

~*~

What are you fighting for? (I was doing fine)
Too sad I’m same as yours? (And the days
I would catch myself from falling)
What are you fallin’ for? (Keep me, collect me
Like the stones you would find on the beach)
Too sad I’m same as yours? Tumble me smooth
You know it’s some of that I need…

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