Skeleton

The punch in the gut,
the swearing, the smut,
caught her mind
up in a bind.
She did it again,
forgot to lift her pen
so the clouds still hover.
And she doesn't recover
from any of it.
A battle of wit,
but she's too drained to care
how many scars are there
or how much more her liver can bear.
Connect the dots, the rips, the tears.

Shuffling on her sidewalks,
but - at every turn - she balks:
a scared skeleton, hiding
and only in her walls, confiding.
Yet she suspects the drywall
of conspiring to tell-all.
She's looking for a home
or a soul with whom to comb
the strands of life she has left.
Her youth: victim of theft.
But it's always out of reach.
There's a crack, a hole, a breach.
There's a quiver in your speech.
There's a lesson here to teach.


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It's not that I'm being prolific. This one and the one I posted yesterday are actually just poems I started a while ago that I didn't feel able to finish at the time, but now feel I can finish adequately. You tell me.

However, I may become more prolific now that some of the older ideas have been worked through a little.







"There's a hole in the ceiling down through which I fell. There's a girl in a basement coming out of her shell. And there are people who will say that they knew me so well. I may not go to heaven; I hope you go to hell..." Counting Crows St. Robinson And His Cadillac Dream