as a 16-year-old poet

An old poem ran into my mind while getting ready for work this morning, a poem I wrote ten years ago. I still kind of like it.

The Burden of Dirty Linens

It all goes back to those stains
that you left on my bed
like a vulgar
tainted
constant reminder
of the games that you played with my head
purged at last
by grace
dressed in red
relieving me from any lasting attachment to you
other than
of course
the memories
haunting episodes I never should have condoned


two hearts
much too rapidly beating
as we found ourselves repeating
the same dreadful acts
that always pulled us toward
the sins of the past
I'm sorry
my dear
your eyes seemed to be saying
this time may be the last
or maybe not
it's hard to tell
looking through those eyes
to such an empty head

well, i'm off
to do the laundry
to remove those last
sordid remnants of you
but I know I'll sleep tonight
and tomorrow
on a bed of broken dreams
with soiled thread and seams.

Bonjour, blog

Better late than never, yes?

In these increasingly-constrained times, having yet another self-indulgent way to wax poetic on a variety of topics that may or may not be of interest to others seems appropriate. Because I don't do enough of that on Facebook.

But seriously. I like to share. So welcome to my blog. Because I like to chirp.