Thursday, February 27, 2014

Sara: Poem 1

Do not worry for me, love.
I am nestled in the crook of someone else's young arms.
I have found ways to live with the parts of me you wanted to raze.

Do not worry for me.
For I am preoccupied with frivolity...
To be succinct, but with no discernible precisosity:

Adolescence: Egos of paper mache
Cars: Exhaustion and death
Sundry red: Parted lips, ripe fruits, unmentionables...

      Red, you exhaust me.
      Like I exhausted you?

Do not worry for me, love.
I am so busy, oh so busy, with salting soups and sidewalks.
I pay my bills, love, I do.
Mostly pay the majority of my bills.

Do not worry for me.
I am no longer the ever delicate nod to early senescence.
No, not entangled with creases on a page, rather part of script,
that I write,
line by line.

Do not worry for me, love;
I no longer worry for you.