I felt something today,
a clumsy inkling in the knots of my wrist,
writhing to forge new life,
to all of yesterday's headlines.
I dropped a bullet in a spinnerette,
and oh! how it spun,
waiting for precisely the right moment,
to make it's triumphant escape.
I've dealt in misfortune,
and less than duly deserved attire,
I've bed witches and women,
of earthly good.
I must say I prefer the former,
for its far more my taste,
to watch indecency,
turn into a new kind of love.
Should I be saved,
should I not speak of yesterday,
and try to rebuild from the ruin of my past affairs something that announces a result.
I only look for tragedy,
I get the most pleasure from those who can only destroy me,
So tell her if you see her,
I'm counting down from 6 to 1.
Also, in postscript,
send her a reminder of no pity,
but I wish her the sincerest jealousy.
We will meet again,
this pen is a gun,
and these words are the powder,
I am the bullet,
and you are the paper.
I have spelt it out clear,
I've broken my wrists over you,
and I've stumbled my way to delicacy.
So Tell her, From Me,
That I miss "we."
And in return for my sappy indiscipline,
that I wish for a thousand sobs and laughs,
wrapped up in overdoses and late-nite liquor sweats,
I've shared a bed twice more,
but I choose the floor.