In Not So Many Words

 

I apologize for the poetry about poetry,

The writing about writing,

The waiting for the sake

Of waiting.

 

But isn’t there something in the broken punctuation,

Of words un-written,

Erased without hitting the glow we now consider the page?

 

The clash of pride against an ancient stone of:

“This is how it is.”,

Breaks with an obvious rhythm

And a mocking glare,

But isn’t there something in the shit poem that pats you,

On the back,

Slaps you,

On the wrist,

Grabs you,

By the Twat,

Or Cock,

To let you know after all this late night wandering,

You may not have traveled far,

Long,

But took a bent and raised knee toward the pat,

The slap,

The grab?

 

The settled squiggle of the ‘?’ trashes the text,

But lets you regret the ‘But’ a little less,

For asking.

 

This poem isn’t meant to be read,

Just re-written,

In hopes my ‘But’ Doesn’t ‘?’ so much.

 

Maybe if you re write it you’ll  see,

The ‘?’ doesn’t hurt your ‘But’ as much.

 

Lube up,

This poetry shits’ a hell of a.