I will write a thousand pages
until I can no longer see, hear, feel your ghost
and the endless chatter that has come to define your existence
I will fight
until I am soaked with my own tears
spent with exhaustion
bled dry
of this poor excuse for a romantic inclination
I embrace this you-lessness
with all the vigor and wonderment of Christmas morning
only
its merely silence I crave
the shutting of your f*cking mouth
that I can only pray awaits me in those pretty boxes
all adorned with perfect bows, pastel and generic
which do less to betray their precious contents
than they do to boast the "semblance"
of a good and decent man
complete with sweet petite cards that read
"A beautiful waste of time"
my gift to me.
No comments:
Post a Comment