Hold

poem by: Braverman Waltz
Written on Nov 20, 2016

My weak is in the dead of night blind and longing it scratches and tears at the walls around me leaving noted finger prints and dry black blood it has no business here a leper an outcast a preacher that preachers on a Sunday a friend who wants my soul to replace her own a gift squandered my weak is mine clothed and taken for a walk feed and cared for like a pet snake in the winter or a snail in the rain it reminds me like a favorite movie played over and over again gotta hit the pause button change the tyer pat the cat that's right don't have one a nightmare needed a dream awake an upside down back to front story told and then a song sung while driving my weak this weak is holy.

 

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