he wishes his eyes were dead stars,
and take his chances
with the frailty found at midnight.
they come to wash away the stains
between his smile
and his frown.
the coffee spills
collecting in the corners of his eyes,
the ones he never forgot about.
he tries to remember
to forget and forgive; but
his eyes cannot shift
the five o'clock chimes
behind his skull.
and he knew I had always wanted
a pet failure,
someone to remind me
I was lonely.
and he grips life
between a thumbprint
and tequila.
he always knew his future
was stuck in the past.
Author notes
Prompt 4: Tequila is his heartbeat, his veins burned gasoline (Skid Row, 18&Life)
written to slither, by velvet revolver. i'm happier.
A contest entry
- Die Like You Mean It by High-on-Death.
300 points, ended April 20, 2008, 11 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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