this room is killing me

these four walls are ruining me
they have taken all the air.

my nights have me a wreck.
there is no time in this room
I have unplugged the clocks.

I have ripped through your
memoirs'. your bestiality
has my heart strung up high.
the book is 8 pages long.

your mountain is westward high
sunburnt, your wall is trampled
tanfaced and high like a dove
I conquer you meanest winds.
SouthCali loves us both.

your txts fly through the 3G network
like glass bottles. filled with unspelled
endorsements and failed poise. the sea
is your lover; and you are shipwrecked
eighty miles short of our lighthouse city.
I can hear your song from the shore.

by 12am the sun is too high, I am too high
for spring twothousandten. and our race of
words clamor, and smudge on the paper.
we write uneven pros, and you pick me apart.
and for the first time, for real, you sing.

the California sun has us pinned to the bed.
it's too hot to fall in love, and we are not
well kept under your sheets. and this time
you have me writing really bad poetry.

so then, when the thunderclouds soften
we emerge clean and new. ready for
soft blows to the head of our honesty.

and your bed will be the
softest it's ever been.

lets call it love.

.

.

a/n: who knew i had it in me.