Wednesday, September 23, 2009

bad poems are an exercise in self rightousness

Under a desk,
you crouched,
assembling your partial life
Parting ways

You explained to me
With a certain candor
about fences,
striped sheets
and your Boarder’s girt card.

To what ends
was always unclear

Cautioning me I guess
Wasn’t an option
eventually you’d let me down
And
I know you knew it
you always did

that head of yours is on tight enough
To see the end of this
even if you still can’t pull your life together

Maybe my feeling just
Slipped your mind

Here we where
If given time
With effort
I could certainly do better then this,
but I probably won’t.

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