Poetry

I know with a quiet certainty that no one reads words, and for that, I am surely glad,
since words unravel more than anyone wants to hold, a lace too fragile for calloused hands.
It means no one will notice the way I fumble with ghosts of my past,
and no one will feel that jagged edge, the scrape of regret veiled behind lines unseen,
because no one reads words, they do not care for meanings stripped bare in black ink.

To the brink, where pleasure swells,
A dance of breath, where passion dwells.
Teasing whispers, fingers glide,
A tantalizing game, where fantasies hide.

Unsolicited dicks on display, such a fucking comedy,
Here are the top reasons for this absurdity.
These fools think they’re clever, they think they’re so slick,
But all that they show is a sad little trick.

The wind’s got a howl, yeah, like Kerouac’s ghost,
Blowing through the alleys where lovers get lost,
Autumn rolls in, all cool jazz and slow burn,
Summer’s old news, man, just another turn,
And I’m finding love in the fade, digging the cost.