I will always disappoint you.
My words are no where near roses,
ink stained and caked with clay
though I have scrubbed them bloody.
My lines overflow with sudden downpours
that I inflate into a monsoon
a swell you can not hold back with
the tenderest of sighs.
Still I expect you to save me from obscurity.
I tell lies lovingly,
each verse a litany of devotion
or a buzzed serendipity.
I will fall in love with the sleeved heart of every poet.
Give me a purpose , a wilting tea rose
or the embryo of a pearl washed ashore.
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