If You Were A Phone #, You’d Be 911

If you were a mistake, I already told you.

If you were a stock, I’d have sold you.

If you were a poker hand, I’d fold you.

And my hands fold to fists to hold you

then I open them to beg

for whatever scraps fall my way.

If we were clothes we’d clash.

If you were a tense you’d be the past.

If you were art you’d be something Munch drew.

So my hands fold to fists to fold into you

but then I open my hands to beg

for whatever ash falls my way.

If you were my child, I’d disown you.

If your heart was an inn, you’d have no room.

If you were a rest-stop, you’d be a tomb.

And so my hands fold to fists to bury you

still your memory slips through

as a shadow slays the day’s rays.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s