Actually, it wasn't meant to be a poem. Just something I jotted down on the fly. But I have yet to find a home for it so I offer it up as a sacrifice to the Demons of the Writer's Block.
(the following has no grounds in reality...)
("dot, dot, dots" hold a lot of weight in my reality)
(take that as you will)
Occasionally A Sentimental and Mildly Cliche Moment in the
Night Time is a Flash of Well Deserved Violence in Disguise, Delivered by a Girl Who
May Not Actually, Considering Recent Developments, Be Receiving that $4,000 Diamond Ring that Is Nestled Warmly in Your Coat Pocket
I thought I saw a shooting star,
but it was just your fist,
but it was just your fist,
all pale and small
in the moonlight
arcing towards my head.
That’s the last thing I remember.
arcing towards my head.
That’s the last thing I remember.
Thank you...
Thank you very much.
Is it wrong for a title to be longer than the actual piece?
4 comments:
wow. wow. you do have a way with words Mr. McLoch.
dot. dot. dot.
that poem was HOT!
...thunderous applause, whistling, shrieking.
Welcome back Pinky.
Christ. It is strangely reassuring to know that all of my readers, and the random 'Anonymous' passerby, are all drunk.
You kind, slurred words make me glow.
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