You know what, I'm just going to keep raping the forum with my poetry until I get some input XD
FOR EVA, DREAMING
I dated a crap poet back in eighth,
thought she was really something for a while;
it wasn't even really what she wrote -
boys are from Heaney, girls are from Clarke
- but the way she had inkstains on her tongue
from kissing her pen more than she kissed me,
and waking with a notebook on my chest
when my parents were away for a night.
At age fourteen, the finer points of sex
are hoping somebody reads your poems.
When I am a vase on the mantlepiece
and a leather-bound notebook, nothing more,
we will know that love is prepubescent -
and poets couldn't give a damn
- and dream in uncomplicated colour
of the prism angel sleeping on my roof,
and how we never could quite put it into words
but saw it with the eyes of youth,
and ever clear enough.
