i am like a street dog.
mangy and bitter
and nothing that has happened
to make me this way
can change the disease that i spread
no amount of sympathy
can kill a virus
and yet people still romanticize this notion
loving like a "dog" would
crouching in a dark alleyway
mauling those who get close
each noise, even the slightest offset
sending you running as fast as you can
there's a funny thing about writing poetry
the rawness aches; bones and tissues bared
and i almost want to dislike those
who sympathize with my words
because how can someone "good"
crouch in that dark alleyway with something like me?
literature is both
the purest and the most putrid
form of love.
because here i am, sharing my fleas with you
earnestly; i mean no harm
but how can either of us know their intentions?
fleas are parasites, just as much as i may be
mange-ridden and snapping with yellowed, chipped teeth
at even the most caring of outstretched hands
a one-man-game of tug-of-war
i reel myself back in
just as quickly as i cast myself out
YOU ARE READING
the archives - a poetry portfolio
PoesíaA light buzzing distracts you from whatever you're doing. There is an old, weathered monitor on a table next to you. You could have sworn that it had just *appeared* out of thin air. Out of curiosity, you stare at it for a moment. The screen flicke...
