04-26-2013, 07:13 AM
sometimes you reach to touch my dead-clasp hand
I cannot stand
the empty of the crisp and white
I cannot write.
cannot mar the perfect page. I loathe
those exact corners. perpendicular
like some exalted cross-borne.
I need to rend and tear, scribble-scratch
and scrawl, slam my fists or grab a match
and watch
as it explodes with a wolfram burst.
don't talk, don't speak, don't even look.
paper should be exiled to books
or better yet tossed to filthy up the streets
like outcast brochures, hated
like flyers selling 20% off next month
at the gym.
if I am back in bed, lost in the disarray
of sheets
and tangled covers as night chews up the day
retreat
don't. don't. don't sneak a look. don't
make so much noise sweeping
up the broken dishes, the shitty-cheap
candle holders, the scattered folders
don't turn the table over. don't bother.
don't ever, ever, ever wake me.
I cannot stand
the empty of the crisp and white
I cannot write.
cannot mar the perfect page. I loathe
those exact corners. perpendicular
like some exalted cross-borne.
I need to rend and tear, scribble-scratch
and scrawl, slam my fists or grab a match
and watch
as it explodes with a wolfram burst.
don't talk, don't speak, don't even look.
paper should be exiled to books
or better yet tossed to filthy up the streets
like outcast brochures, hated
like flyers selling 20% off next month
at the gym.
if I am back in bed, lost in the disarray
of sheets
and tangled covers as night chews up the day
retreat
don't. don't. don't sneak a look. don't
make so much noise sweeping
up the broken dishes, the shitty-cheap
candle holders, the scattered folders
don't turn the table over. don't bother.
don't ever, ever, ever wake me.