Her eyes.
Can I talk about her eyes?
Is that allowed?
So soon in a poem, I mean?
OK, good.
Thank god, cause, I was about to really question myself.
But, I’m beating around the bush.
Big time.
I’m avoiding the real issue.
The big issue.
Me!
What do my wrinkles mean?
My finger print is a spider web of me.
My eyes hold the weight of my future.
Bags.
Big heavy bags of pages and pages of pen scratch.
Of dead trees,
Wasted ink,
Spent time,
And,
Lost life.
Although everything is an educational experience,
I feel the slaughtered trees will not agree with me.
Poor fucking trees.
