Constance…the poem I just posted is crappy…it is the desperate emotional mouth to mouth on my hurt heart and the attempt to just get some of the crap out.
I like what my friend told me about days…it was good medicine…but as always, it is in a poem, regardless of how crappy, that lances the boil.
If you didn’t catch it? I think that life lived like everyone else is for me a death, a lobotomy of the heart. But life lived in opposition to the lobotimist? That too has its own risk.