The warmth of her poetry
Does not reach me today.
How can it, though?
I’m already burning
With pride and envy.
I see her and see “potential”,
The word I now reject,
For all I have been is that.
I see her and see “disappointment”,
The word I now accept,
For all I am is that.
Poetry will get her too, no doubt.
She’s doomed and she loves it.
She’s had a taste of that delight.
She ain’t lettin’ it go. No, no.
A moth drawn to the LED bulb.
It won’t kill her like that oven did,
But she’ll keep butting her head in
And die naturally of a wasted life.
Or she’ll prove me wrong
And save me along the way.