For Chris

I wrote a little piece, something you never did read,
though you tried hard,
you just didn't see,
that I am me,
And you are the. . .
only one, that could have saved,
Everything.

Falling,
Tragic,
This peice like magic,
off your tongue it rolls like
something sweet
you taste it
but then it falls,
hitting the ground
like that last drop of ice cream that you wanted
would have tasted the best of all
because it would have stuck to you
like glue
never gone
never alone
you would have been forever in that beautiful
sensation
moving all the time in it
you try to explain but the words fill your cheeks
a squirrel now
your words like gibberish come out your mouth
ugly vomit
you can't escape
you try
but it just can't come out
Awful rancid taste
fills,
your,
p-o-r-e-s.


All because of this
little
insignificant work that you decided you were
just
2 good 4


WOW
if only you could see
how simply it truly
not be
but is,
correct grammar
always true
but not
cuz poetry ain't about
the rules:
1. That language is real, full, and lovely.
2. Communication is vital to life.
Yet we ignore this, trying to escape
make up rules
4 on the AP,
yet I know not,
what Huchmala was preaching,
some pot perhaps
stuck in her wig
kept her high
away from my tragedy-

This work,
That you never did read.