“This is not a love song” PIL

I don’t have daughters
Can’t vicariously live through them
Teach them how and why to say no
Decorate them in shimmers and polish
Tell them to keep their eyes wide open

I was just thinking about this.

Like, sons are a dream
But would a girl fill this void?
You know the one, that missed pass
Someone whacking a tennis ball, new
Me, hideously rebelling in lipstick bliss
And sweet under the patented scowl
Dark shroud, pale face, hidden eyes
Looking down at my spiral journal
Missing the entire potential blip
Would there be recognition?
I have no fucking idea

Sometimes I just wish I could scream:
We blew it, man! We fucking blew it!

At least we like teeter totters
The same kind of pudding
And know what’s not real
Such things, like death
Incarnation nation
Two silly jackets
Lumbering
Around
Angry

The inner-shell lining, of course
Is made if 100% hurt and sadness

In all seriousness, I do know what kind of cake he likes. It makes me nervous i won’t remember, so I repeat it to myself often. It’s a permanent ribbon around my finger. Isn’t that insane?

This, for sure, isn’t a poem

These are slight musings of thee infirm

1 thought on ““This is not a love song” PIL

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