i haven't written something worthwhile in ages. i'm not sure when i wake up tomorrow i will still consider this one so, but i figured either way i'd post it for some feedback. it's in the ghazal form and i struggled with an ending. it has no title as of now.
i've labeled myself a walking contradiction,
a naive poet, a phony. i'm not sure which is worse.
the boy i first loved didn't care for my clothes
and was caught like a fish on some other line.
the one who counted each syllable in an attempt
to prove his grace was more scared than me.
the last was the rarest of birds, but with nimble fingers
i chased him and plucked every feather i could.
the next boy to tattoo his name across my tongue
might have a beard, or a lip ring, or a rosary in hand.
and perhaps i'll mumble a prayer on some city street
for parallel lines and drunken cliches.
but i'm an honest fake who would rather
preach my mistakes than dream of love.
