Rosalind, with the bedroom of her heart.
Rosalind, laughing alone among beauty.
The mirror was laughing at her,
Behind her, looking straight through her.
Rosalind left and discovered writing.
Dreaming was a good unknown.
Her eyes shine at her bedroom—
It was meant for an author.
I am thinner than I thought:
Though my scale says I'm not,
I can see the sour fruit I've caught.
In the spring, the flowers call
Like I could be King of them all,
Burning in the sun before the fall.
not a cola or a root beer;
something in between
like a tortured machine—
it will power down soon.
that tang on your tongue
is from my chewed up wires,
lightning should show through smoke
I'm sorry—
Sorry that I keep getting stuck in that well;
Sorry for always relying on your rope;
Sorry for putting all my guts on display;
Sorry for influencing you to decide like me;
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