art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
by the bar
We were the thing of champions; shiny collectibles that gathered dust in the corner while other lovers walked out the front door. I'm guilty too. I jumped ship before the wind could lift sail. "Better off without me." I was a pistol waiting to be left in the wrong hands. I let my anger get the best of me. Cloud me up like a hotbox with the incense burnin' and a little nostalgia. But, living like I do, I wore my heart of my sleeve like high fashion. It was winter all the time- without the Christmas. I could never quite get the timing right. People keep handing me gifts, not knowing my hands been clumsy. I always felt the need to warn 'em. They give anyway. I don't suppose it's my heart. She isn't always well, trusting without the decency of shame. Speaking before I've had the chance to think. She doesn't know what she wants. Or maybe, I've been resistant. Still, I only know that she wants more, and these days she's never content. She gets a lot of people upset- emotional mother-lover.
By A.I. Reads5 years ago in Poets
