• I did not mean to see my life a progression of men,
    as a series of centerpieces on various coffee tables.
    Flowers fading, dying really,
    and being replaced.
    Vases fall from bookshelves like happy memories from my life
    staining the new poetry that I am trying to write.

    Between my legs, I am trying to imagine weight and substance,
    but finding my fantasy too substantial, I turn to scripture and novels.
    Language creeps into my literature and makes it too loud.
    Vases fall from bookshelves like repulsive words from my favorite mouth,
    forcing themselves on me.
    Creating messes and taking up my time.

    Dread and less serious emotions burry me and I pay lip service to eternal peace.
    I pray haltingly.
    Vases fall from bookshelves like new Philosophy falls on comforting beliefs,
    leaving them stained and hard to return to normal.