July 22, 2012

poem 249 of a poem a day for 012

sometimes I hate when all the words do is cover my irrevocability

losing my humanity is
my finality of coffin nails
my spaded dirt
hurling myself
into my dug holes
for the blindness of foxes
and their noses
and the other
burrowed things
that go and bump
into the security of night

I used to be confident
enough to trust myself
to do the right thing
or at least know
what the right things were
but I don’t anymore
and every boiled empty
cooks down to syrupy reminders
of last gasp flowers
that vine every why

drowning can be
another end of wings
and you better learn to begin
is what is singing
for you to swim
to where your heart
doesn’t need any
float buoys of comfort
for awhile


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