PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The radio wishes me dead.

after a long day voices strain 

I feel something, I swear, then

I come home to find you have removed 

my bowl of waxed fruit and my

coffee table book

it was Neruda

You know good and well how much I love him

his perceptions, his women, his description of tits

and page 33 was the only prayer I had left to

give

yet you took it, without thought, so

youve got to go

and I've got to find 

someone else

who doesn't mind Pablo and I caving

inward on a Friday night

I keep looking for real love

I say to myself "it has to be out there"

this just cannot be all

my life has amounted to

poetry and dreams

and that isn't half bad, really

except the radio wants me

dead

for even entertaining the

thought that she might exist