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Words Rearranged To Create Poetry
they told me
it had to rhyme
it had to mean something—
something big—
like death, or love,
or the smell of gasoline in a motel parking lot.
so I just sat there
with a busted lighter
and an ashtray full of good intentions,
and the words just
spilled out like a drunk
trying to find my shoes that I misplaced.
this isn’t a poem,
it’s just like life
with its pants down,
asking you to kiss it
before it collapses again,
waking up just to do it over
and over again.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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