and folded it over and over and
placed it the static of
an old composition notebook
then positioned it next
to other books on an old shelf and
lived years
ugly moons
writing songs for old dogs
sitting in midnight parks pulling absentmindedly at grass
drinking inspirations
pissing them out in pathetic shudders
furious masturbation black magic
long fields broken by roads
screaming lies of love in faces slashed with dawning understanding
mischievous joyrides
melting into willing arms and
it remained there uncorrupted
some ridiculous message to self
lost in a move
destroyed
unknown
unread
forgotten in murkier ages and
maybe it's what's missing
a wildcard healing element
something to grasp
through xeroxed days
i just can't remember
what i gave to myself
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