this poem is unpunctual, at best 

And I couldn’t tell, if anyone here was feeling the way I do
But I’m lonely now, and I don’t know how
To get it back to good

Matchbox Twenty 

she is approximately 
751 days behind 
the eight ball 
the last call 
the deadline 
that fine line 
between late and lost. 

she’s tossed 
one too many sheets 
to the wind 
to the sky  
and into the trash. 

she’s been lapped 
clapped aside 
and tried to simply hide 
inside her own syllabled skin. 

she’s lost 
focus, faith  
whimsy, will 
the thrill 
but she’ll get all 
one clack 


In April, we poem.

This entry was posted in April PAD 2022 and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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