Sad Poems : Alcoholic Poet: Boasting the Drum Sad Poetry.

Alcoholic Poet. Poetry Equals Distance Over Time.

Distance Over Time
Friday 8/17/2007 12:35:00 AM

The bed growls. Hungry jackals survey the scabs. As the darkness grows over the holes we've made in this bed. The bits of skin we call scabs musing on the villains of a stoic fairy tale.

Were I a princess. Then. They'd all kneel down. Waste their kisses on trying to wake me up. Were I a monster. Then. They'd fight that much harder. The fables of every reality may differ. But the moral remains the same. I wear this sword from groin to tongue. While the dragons fight amongst themselves.

Until every battle is an afterthought. And every love has been and gone. Talcum powder still in the air long after the rash is solved. Making it harder to breathe than was promised. Coloring all that skin I had hoped I'd lost.

The night tries but never can. Perpetuate the change. I pull at the staples that hold those pages close. I drown the deserts in tears. And still nothing grows there.

I beat my drum. As loud as I can. But still. No one moves.


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