empty the glass, sabotage the story, kid
I've missed you,
wrapped around
my tongue-voice.
You're sinking like a
poem,
crumpled paper/
thumbprints closed.
I've been sailing,
touched your moth-wings
with my blood lips.
Opening your glass neck
with a flick
of the proverbial wrist.
I miss the darkness
surrounding.
I remember you in my gut,
telling me what to think/
ink-paint over the real words.
Ardency
swells,
lost.
The End
RATE THIS CHAPTER!
Please login to rate this chapter!
RATINGS BREAKDOWN
3 COMMENTS ABOUT THIS POEM Feed
THE GOODS
You're currently reading a chapter in the poem
Broken Fingers. This chapter
was posted on Oct 23, 2011 by
PaulMacklin.
This is a solo poem.
About this poem
"a small collection of poems written as of recently."
This poem is filed under:
Blank Verse
POST A COMMENT
Wanna say something? Make yourself heard!
We reserve the right to delete spam, flames, or other nasty stuff.