I don't have scars
On my chest
Just root-marks where you
Pulled the flowers
out of my lungs
A wooden, bloody crest
I never touched the half used
chapsticks you gifted me
It once sat on your vanity
"Too victorian, you see?
Too romantic riddled
Too preciouse to use
On a fleeting whim"
How wrong could one be?
I did not make
Mistakes, like others did
I made them bigger, funnier
Somewhere a crowd could see
So they could laugh, cheer,
Clap me on the shoulder and say
"The next drink is on me"
My poems don't ryhtme, they
Get thicker, wordier
With every wave of memory
Until they hit the shore
Dead, "woe is me"
Paragraphs beat the verses
Just like how your desire
Beat a heart in a plea
I don't know when I
Ought to end a poem
Or a spark, and or fling
It ends itself for m .
