If I said I wasn't a good person,
that would be conceited, right?
Right.
I'd be slip-dripping into old times that I don't need.
But my head is so heavy,
and I think I caught my own tongue.
There's too much silence that seems sudden.
I'm not articulate. Sometimes I can write,
but I sure as hell can't speak.
Where my money goes or when there's too many people around me.
When I'm sad, I can't say a thing. Even when people ask.
It's default and mandatory that I deny or distract.
Cut off my tongue; I've got buttons for eyes.
Wish I could read Howl,
but the closest I've got right now
is Mexico City Blues.
Which might be appropriate.
I spent eight sentences begging for things
I can't remember.
Tell me that's not bad.
© Copyright 2007 Abby Almon
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