Tuesday, September 6, 2011


(Pre-Script: This poem best read as the song, "Secrets," #26 on the playlist, plays in the background. Go down to the playlist, click on that song, then come back and resume reading. I'll wait...)(...still waiting...)

I tend to come crashing in;
There is nothing graceful about it.
Just wham, here I am and oops,
what did I break on the way down.
I usually stand up to find it was my heart
that broke the fall, and some blood
got splattered around the parameters
of this place;
but I wipe it up,
wash it out,
cry a little bit,
(just a little bit up front)
and then I settle in real comfortable and nice;
and then the next thing you know,
I have fallen asleep in your back pocket.


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