maybe you fit somewhere else better,
maybe inside coffee cups or onto lined tablets of old paper,
the real kind, the kind you don't mind.
maybe you will learn to accept imperfection,
maybe your next cat will be white and not a cat at all but a dog,
forget the litter, don't litter, don't litter at all,
those cigarette butts end up in strange places.
maybe peasants curse me for smoking on the street,
the lines don't keep my writing straight,
maybe I don't care about that anyway,
nor really do you,
but maybe I can look inside my own brain for once,
not afraid anymore of what you don't want for me.
maybe this is the arrogance of youth,
well earned at the end of it
when my ancestors were considered ancient
and babies cried in their arms for mothers, dead at 14 from childbirth,
and maybe I can make something nourishing now,
maybe money, maybe poems, maybe love, maybe not
but maybe you can settle in and down and let me see for myself,
without your hand in mine,
guiding and maybe strangling it to death on a curbside outside a terminal.
- I’ll Be Writing the Rest of My Poems from Prison b...
- Four Poems by Antony Hitchin
- Three Poems by Mather Schneider
- Margaret by Wolfgang Carstens
- Fresh Off The Brazier, Medium Rare by Donal Mahone...
- The Very Last Friday by Jonathan Butcher
- shipping news by Sam Ledger
- Two Poems by Danny D Ford
- under the tuscan sundress by John Grochalski
- Gray Matter by Dena Rash Guzman
- The Not-So-Epic by Shawn Misener
- Three Poems by Cassandra Dallett
- Two Poems by Ali Znaidi
- The Science Of Free Prostitution by Robert Wilson
- Two Poems by David Parham
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