Another Friday poetry night:
The only
hands you get to take
belong
to your keyboard
The lips
you get to kiss
that of your
swollen self-reflectivity
-and oh God
are those some cracked lips-
The sweet
voice you get to hear
is your own mind’s
and echoes within (and within and within and
within)
your own
mind, dammit, and nowhere else
The eyes
you get to gaze and gaze at
can’t believe what they’re seeing in
the mirror
The rain
outside you’d like to walk under
has already soaked you
The purse
you’d like to make lighter tonight
is already empty
The
hangover you won’t have tomorrow morning
seems to have already fucked you up
The words
you will laugh at yourself for tomorrow morning
seem to be already in the writing
again.
Another
Friday poetry night:
The moon
is in hiding.
The good
lines
are in hiding.
The good
friends
are in hiding.
The good
girls
are in hiding.
-and the bad ones too-
Another Friday poetry night.
You
are in hiding, too
but not hidden quite well enough
from yourself.
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