Blood As My Ink

Dead Wishes

I'm waiting for something

That I'm not sure will ever come.

They call it fate,

A whirling swirling

Hurl of energy that sweeps

Hair a mile away

And spins a furled fury

Called passion.

I imagine it as a she,

And for many it's something else.

But I suppose I chose the thinner path.

Perhaps I'm surly,

So sure of my tantrum

I may never be smitten.

Might be I'm the perfect masochist,

Waiting for the sun

To burn my eyes out

As I'm staring at the moon.

The stars remind me of days

When I could be dizzy for free,

And it didn't cost me ringing ears

And a sore head.

Many days could go by,

Many long legs

Dancing hair

Prancing eyes that draw

My gaze, but I'll just as soon shoot myself

In the foot before I dance too.

There are so many stories and daydreams

That spin in my head that

I can't tell if my life is written

In blood or ink. Sometimes

I can't see the sky past clouds

That cluster in my throat and most

Of the time it begins to burn.

I would wish for a change in luck,

For some kind of cupid arrow pull,

But when a dandelion loses its fur

Doesn't it become something like a skull?