Poetry For Everyday People
Spit
Thoughts of them
now are more of an
old smell, that
basement room far
at the bottom of humanity,
where that big crack
in the wall was the
focal point, my
window, I thought
if I couldn't take
it anymore
I could run hard as I can
(all fifty pounds of me)
into it and escape,
night, always
night in that room,
life's basement games,
cold, raw, with sweat that would
kill a rose if it fed it,
as I played the games all
badly made up without much
result for me, although it seemed
they achieved many enthusiastic moments
during the games, relief of some sorts,
as if they had something lifted and they
would get that kind smile again and start
breathing slower,
and I would sit there painfully shy as they talked
yet without much sense as if the game
was still in progress even between takes,
the game was only ours of course, we didn't want anybody
else playing, our great discovery, would remain
ours, and it all made sense to the mind but not
the heart
as life quickly exceeds the realm of innocence.
now are more of an
old smell, that
basement room far
at the bottom of humanity,
where that big crack
in the wall was the
focal point, my
window, I thought
if I couldn't take
it anymore
I could run hard as I can
(all fifty pounds of me)
into it and escape,
night, always
night in that room,
life's basement games,
cold, raw, with sweat that would
kill a rose if it fed it,
as I played the games all
badly made up without much
result for me, although it seemed
they achieved many enthusiastic moments
during the games, relief of some sorts,
as if they had something lifted and they
would get that kind smile again and start
breathing slower,
and I would sit there painfully shy as they talked
yet without much sense as if the game
was still in progress even between takes,
the game was only ours of course, we didn't want anybody
else playing, our great discovery, would remain
ours, and it all made sense to the mind but not
the heart
as life quickly exceeds the realm of innocence.
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