She makes me angry.
Who can cut an edge finer than that?
Every word; my visceral heaven,
I eat them raw, to the hilt.
Who puts poems on screens anyway?
A digital mist; pixelated lake.
She lays hers on thick, linen sheets,
I press them like wax under flame, and she's
She knows she burns;
The nightmares, the sacred.
I'll come back, crawling and spent.
The strike of the pen,
The creak of my heart.
Every page drowns me,
Her ink dredged revenge.
photo credit: Roger Smith via photopin cc