May 1, 2009


You are the collateral damage,
stricken by the shrapnel
of my helpless honesty.
I hurt you every time
I put pen to paper,
and I'd like to kiss it better,

but I've got ink on my lips.

You are the innocent bystander
caught in my creative crossfire,
and when I see you bleeding on the pavement,

all I really want to do is
write about it.

Poets are like that.
We suck on poison so frequently,
we have developed a certain immunity,
and I

slip my tongue into your mouth, forgetting

you have not developed the same.

March 2009.

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