you are not the dining table, nor its maggots aching in endless fornication;
you are not the chandelier, the padded rooms, the straight jacket—
nor the warden’s truncheon;
found myself writing these lines this morning.. i originally planned to get myself sweating out to a dance in the other room, maybe do some yoga after; instead i gave in to my other love.. and found myself sweating out for words. hehehe.
oh well. i guess you really can't have em all. :) will be posting the poem at naked scribbles as soon as i see a glimmer of polish. i'm tentatively calling it take heart, troubled child.