a stolen virginity, heart-broken wrist-slitting poem about moons
this is about moons, and changing
and the tendancy of people
to become luna-ticks
sucking the blood of other people's pain
we all like to lick at other people's pain
especially when from wrists slit for our eyes
drama is what we live on, deny though you may
you know it's true.
this is about moons, and wondering
why in the pale light some things
are ok, and others are not
and who died to elect each of us god
why our changing seasons makes us
somehow able to compare and judge
the seasons of others.
this is about moons, and questioning
how one person's heart being broken
is more valid than another's
and quality of poetry, and why
our opinion on what is "good" and what is "bad"
expressions of that anguish, that despair
is the one true path, the only truth.
my virginity of spirit has been stolen
my heart broken by watching compassion
slit her wrists in my bathtub.
the moon watches the grisly scene.
she waxes and wanes