worse than it ever has
and I have stitches in my belly
from a future poem
that you will read before this one
and put two and two together
under silver.
it feels as though
my head wants to leave
and go blow up somewhere
like my heart did years ago.
my years are hard of hearing
and I can't see tomorrow
for the life of me.
I am worth my weight
in scarred squares,
little red properties
that make up the middle of life
when questions are the answers
to most of this mischief.
what is this
sleeping in song
and wondering about love
all day long,
and what is this
stupid poem
about getting old?
I will stay in the light
every Friday night
and imagine your voice
so far away,
such heights and hope
to do it all again.