I met a poem,
pulling up her stockings just above

her tight leather skirt,

long heels show off thin thighs

to every man in sight.

And they wanted her,

they all whispered to each other

because she looked like the experienced type

that could be strong and wild.

And this poem looked up at me

from the bathroom floor upon which she was sprawled

and whispered in a desperate voice

through thick red lips, covered in blood,

"The truth is..."

and then sputtered and coughed,

died before the point ever came.

So I nailed her to the cross of my needs

in a careless, vulgar manner,

naked and gnarled like tree roots

hoping that maybe she would rot through

and her bones would spell something,

anything,

as long as it was a word I could use,

I could pretend to understand,

I could justify my existance with for just one moment.

10/17/2001

Posted on 10/17/2001
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