I open my box of memories and it is empty…
Except for a few painful shards.
Tell me good night, tell me good-bye.
And burn the pictures of my face.
I cannot bear another plight.
I cannot bear this disgrace.
No more thoughts left,
All my poems are a waste of paper.
Do you really think it’s proper
To stab me at the dinner table?
Like the bouquet worth a days wages
Laid on a hundred year old tombstone,
Is your scripture quoting lips
On your aberrant and immoral face.
And if you insist on killing me with a pitchfork,
I’d rather not die at all.
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