I write when I'm high and I never make sense. There's the broken heart too.
I wanted chronological and gave you a week. We never had a steady plan of decline You told me her death was too big next to that Tuesday anyway.
You lack a certain dogmatism; a jargon of sclerosis. You taught me how to die plausibly and in return I died of stage fright. I told you I'm sorry for not being Zakharova already.
Who am I kidding, I am Edward Estlin Cummings and I'm emptying out our wine glasses. I am Walt Whitman and I dedicate this preemptive elegy. My hands tell me I'm an eviscerated version of the great famine When I drink I feel like the antecedent of All the Russias.
Sorry. You're not supposed to stand there; your cue is a little bit more to the right side of things. You're not supposed to lie down there it's where I spilled milk.
Can't you see I'm trying to create here? It's not a question of where the moon is it's of whom he'll spit on.
2)https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/61cpat/comment/dffoij3?st=J0QZQO40&sh=57b28ba5
Posted Mar 26, 2017, 6:15 PM UTC · edited