Rival flowers
up at all hours
killing time and making plans—
hold out your hands.
Spilling out and
spiraling down,
fragile, cool, and clean.
Trust me.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.
Up at all hours
making plans for profit—
hold up your hands.
Trust me.
I say my prayers
although I don’t believe.
I trust my instincts:
Paint me gold.
23 May 1990
Age 20
Categories: closure · confidence · hope
He’s there on the sidewalk
lathered in his own shock
I’m surprised he can still talk,
pleading, “My love was not a lie!”
Let him die;
let him die.
You may ask me why
I want to let him die.
You see, just years ago
we used to have a show
called “Who Loves Who More
(and Who Won’t Try).”
I was such a newbie;
he knew I’d work for free.
He said, “Say goodnight, Gracie.”
I said goodnight to me.
So let him die.
Let him die.
You say let him try,
but if he doesn’t, let him die.
Yes, when he doesn’t, let him die.
When he’s laid out on the slab,
finally time to call a cab,
I’ll briefly lose my gift of gab—
my love was not a lie.
I’d love to stay, but I can’t;
Use my coat to prop his head, but let him die.
You can do what you want,
but I’m going to let him die.
16 January 1994
Age 23
[Note: This one goes out to the one with high ideals. You, perhaps?]
