Blunt Knife
driven by a painful stain i say yes to
1/2 empty Bukowski tankards
full of dusty nothings meanwhile sitting
in shallow quicksand @ 96 sweaty degrees
in this emerging limbo
of rent-per-hour eye blinks
flicking rusty milagros erecting
indifferent sentinels to guard
against a past-due event
of forgettable magnitude
breathing as if here but not really
there feeling all kinda so sharp
betrayal yet acutely bland as if
a still deeper black
could hide the stitches
if maybe kinda as though
the pain of being discarded
could fade to fuzzy
and not hurt like a blunt knife
cutting with careless regret
and lack of purpose
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment