Life Poetry Writing

Not My Tempo ~

I will write until my fingers bleed.

stop

for

no one but death.

Comes in only at night.

softly

sweetly

with just a hint of honey.

Like jazz it oozes.

eighth

quarter

heart always loses.

But don’t look now.

buddy

rich

dances on the leather.

Hold me sideways.

it’s

my

pulsating heart rate.

The black is cathartic.

into

the

skin of a cephalopod.

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