Words
and gore racing through my head like a Stephen King haunted diesel.
I
wish I could tell you how I’m feeling, but I keep those thoughts even from
myself.
Poetry
is not an autopsy so stop lifting the sheet looking for a corpse.
I’m
committing these words to the cloud because I like how they sound when his
music rides in and saves the day.
The
nights used to be quite lonely until I found a composer who actually gives a
damn.
He
makes things more seamless when throwing everything including the kitchen sink
at the endless words and gore I supply so shamelessly.
I
have no clue what I’m doing here.
It
just feels right so I thought I’d stand here until either you noticed me or I
was arrested for loitering.
Don’t
pretend you didn’t feel it too when I brushed up against you and you winced.
Not
sure if I’m feeling inspired, but I don’t feel like making a scene so I am
going to finish this poem against my better judgement.
Words
and gore roaring from my cavity as I reach for another square and wonder if
I’ve seen all of the Seinfeld
episodes.
Poetry
is not an affliction so stop scratching for an alibi and just confess to what
you did or did not do in the heat of the moment.
Charles Cicirella
2/7/16
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