they now hurt every morning,
and they hurt people every evening.
they write about lost love
and they let me down like love itself.
TBH, I miss her phone gulps,
especially before Tampa tantrums.
my hands made a phonecall last evening
that I regret more than most, because of vulnerability.
but ultimately I am just a scared boy in the body of a man,
trying to do the darndest he can.
he is me,
and my hands are mine.
sizzle my whole preaching,
oh shit, I don't even care.
my hands will ruin today
with tape and twine.
gotta ask the sweet boy, Dr. Joseph Jose
about the pain, but still drain a three.
bury below a damn thing right,
or meet me, before I die, on an empty street.
I'll write you a poem,
only to be forgotten.