(no subject)
Dear Donald,
I wrote you a poem because your inarticulate words still manage to be dreadfully beautiful.
He looked at me and said,
"How can you lock a monster in a room with no doors?"
His voice was full of tears,
But somehow,
He seemed satisfied.
He flung his arms open and screamed
There was never any more pain inside him
Than there is right now
And he thinks he will die if she leaves him
But she has not yet turned the knife
Where she stabbed it in his back
He smiles sadly and whispers,
"It's okay --
I always play better guitar when I'm mad."
I wrote you a poem because your inarticulate words still manage to be dreadfully beautiful.
He looked at me and said,
"How can you lock a monster in a room with no doors?"
His voice was full of tears,
But somehow,
He seemed satisfied.
He flung his arms open and screamed
There was never any more pain inside him
Than there is right now
And he thinks he will die if she leaves him
But she has not yet turned the knife
Where she stabbed it in his back
He smiles sadly and whispers,
"It's okay --
I always play better guitar when I'm mad."