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Third time writing you a letter, getting darker. |
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I'm getting worse and worse. |
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I had a reason for the writing, but trying to exorcise my demons didn't work. |
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To try to rid me of |
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The worry and to purge you out of wonder for the future and the hurt. |
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I wrote a poem: |
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I'm increasingly aware |
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I've been painting things in gray, |
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I'm increasingly alarmed by the pain, |
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I'm increasingly alive to every cloud up in the sky, |
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I'm increasingly afraid it's going to rain. |
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See, lately |
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I've hated me for over-playing pain. |
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For always pointing fingers out at everyone but |
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Who in fact is guilty and for picking at my scabs like they could never break but they can and |
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They will and |
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I'll spill like a leak in the basement, a drunk in the night choir, just slur all those |
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Words to make deadbeat that sweet old refrain, self-inflicting my pain and therein lies the real |
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Shame: I heard when they were picking through the rubble finding limbs, they sang hymns, but |
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Now what of what |
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I sing? The worry, the wonder, the shortness of days, |
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The replacement for purpose, |
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The things swept away by |
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The worry, the wonder, my slightness of frame, |
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The replacements for feeling, |
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The casual lay. |
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And The worst of the wildlife wears clothes and can pray and |
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The worry, the wonder, for three meals a day. |
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Only death unimpeded, not slowing it's pace, |
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Brings that petty, old worry and wonder away. |
