You Don’t Get a Poem

I wrote this last night...

You Don’t Get a Poem

You don’t get a poem

You don’t get a word to cling to;

To wonder if these words I am saying are directed towards you

You don't get a poem because your skin reeks of

rotting cities of dreams and hollow stomachs

The poets here

have overgrown into giants

Forcing their heads through the surface of your skin

Spreading your love all over this town

They have grown too accustomed to

these sleepless nights

Your lovers have grown too accustomed to

the pale mumbles of your aching body

And I know I am supposed to have mercy on you

I am suppose to forgive and let go

Go with the flow of your river

After all, I was built to know the suffering

My arms were sculpted to cradle your pain to sleep

My heart is your keeper

But you are so quick to bend down for life

Under the mental arrest of your stupidity,

you are so blind that you can not recognize the glare

of sunlight in your eyes;

Those beautiful eyes that can light up this crazy

little town on a good day

And me?

I am battered

I am wasted

But I am ready to get free

I am ready to claim the breath you

so desperately attempt to steal from my lips

For once I would like to walk away with something

A crown

that I can raise to the sky as an offering

An ode to my goddess, to the life she deserves to live,

and men who deserve her kiss

Our love was never perfect,

but it was mine.

So no,

you don’t get a poem

Not this time

This one

is for me.