I need to stop writing bad poetry.
I feel myself falling
all to bits,
like that half-assed
art assignment
(I took art because it's
easy)
made of broken things
held together
with that shitty
lipstick glue.
Chunks of mine
are sloughing off --
bits of plastic bottles,
the smell of vodka
and firewood,
the CDs
I scratched all to hell.
Graying ash
flakes away
and snows from
my face,
it takes years and lines
with it,
and I am younger
( I wish to be
that old woman
with cats).
Pages flap
as winged things from
my breaking hands held
open and I
am really rather lost.
Slowly cracking into
pieces, I loose
the whole
of myself
and as I
turn to
call to you,
my lips slip down to
the floor and shatter.
The lip-bits chorus together
before fading altogether:
Make me Whole!