Everything I write is contrite
and foolish to the tenth degree
How could I think that poetry
would possibly save scum like me
with some absurd ideal ideology
Scribbling nonsense on wrinkled looseleaf
then crinkle it up, I cannot keep
it so it wastes away and rots
lying astray in an unnoticed spot
like me
Though instead I hide behind these thick frames
and bright lipstick which I constantly tame
Please don't look at me, for you will feel shame.
But still I want you to hug me.
I've alway wanted you to love me.
Promise me you will not leave
I need someone to believe
so that one day what I write
will not be cheap
Be my second,
we'll win the fight
Then none of this will ever be trite
Since poetry can't save me
Will you swear to kick the back of my knee
when I am not standing talls
then lend me your hand after I fall.
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