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Language of the Poets
It is not riddles that make
a Paris wife supportive.
I fought for my sanity
in sonnets
knocked over haikus
along the way
to the cemetary,
my peak breasts loosened
for the weight of the world
while age lays locked in them
like portraits of the 1920’s.
I have the power
and it scares me
to stare at it head on
collide into you
by accident
or on purpose
scheming hellos and goodbyes
at train stations
and airports.
Take a road trip
to my heart
pass the detours
like the Montreal construction
nightmare. Grand Prix
weekend again
watch the women
take pictures
on Ferraris.
I know it is stale now
like left over morning toast;
you wonder if you should eat the crust
or throw it out
or take one more bite.
I mean no harm ever
even my enemies like me,
I only want to have my affair
with poetry
and leave all men
and women
at arm’s length.
You taught me to breathe
in Japanese
spoke to me in 5, 7, 5 slang
then left me to suffocate
in the language of poets.
Comments:
11
Chrissy!! I love every word and it tastes like love and sensual little things in the head:)
that sounds delicious x
🙂
:))
Excellent!
Thank you!
Wow – Amazing!
Thank you.
You’re welcome 🙂
Just stumbled upon this, I really enjoyed it 🙂
Thank you!