poetry in my bones, just a little
plenty in my bones, it burns and
burns even when i try cleanse away
creativity in my bones,
i have love for other things;
football and women,
but poetry stings my bones when
wasting away my gifted thoughts.
write me, please write me he whispers
like a pregnant lady in a labour room
wheezing hysterically in discomfort,
don’t let me go he says loudly,
even if you try to let me go
you have to rip out your bones as
i am in you, and one day when you
are old and full of grey hair you will
need me to flaunt your lonliness,
you will need me as a friend and
you will need me to confess your
old regrets as i will need you for
nothing but just an accomodation.


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