Insomniac Poetry Theatre:
Untitled (Unfinished?)

Hold my hand out
will you take it,
if you do then
will you break it;
I remember that
your grip is stronger
than you seem to know.
If I ask for just
one second
will you leave or
come as beckoned,
do I have to follow you
to find out where it is
you go?

I really do not mean
to end up underfoot,
or sound obscene
but you just seem so
sensitive when
you aren't being cold.

So when I try
to hold you will
you push me down
and walk across my frame,
and if I tell you what
a jerk you are
then will it cause you pain?
You're so hard to handle--
fragile,
such a half-spent candle
soft with heat and
quick to burn the
hands
that light you.

I really didn't mean
to bring a tear into
your eye--
sometimes when you're
being you I half forget
that you can cry.

I think you're pretty,
in the dark--
because that's when
I cannot see.
And maybe if I'm blind
I won't know what it does
to me. . .

For every time I'm down
you take me,
rough and careless
doomed to break me;
every time I try
to touch you I just
find you're gone to stay.
If I try to ask
for something
even if it's only nothing,
all I've ever gotten
is my lips or fingers
burned away.  






September 17 2003