Ink bleeds from the tendrils of my words,
Like crimson from the lips of the 2.00 AM girls
Who won't leave the bar at closing;
I am in another place, wherever I am,
Strongly feeling the desire
To pick up my pen and write about all that is in and outside.
Outside is as inside feels,
But is further from me than the Asian man
Who clucks and disapproves from his chipper next door.
I feel like Frida, doomed to paint the woman's world,
While men can sit and discuss
The philosophies of a game gone sour;
Well, Cork lost the match,
We couldn't make three in a row;
It is only bad luck that comes in threes.
Last night, I wanted to explain myself to you,
For reasons only someone else
Who reads my unsent letters could:
You have no outlet that I know of,
And you are lonely,
But you are not alone.
I understand the need to keep your guts
From spilling on the floor,
Where everyone can see and judge them,
But I think we judge ourselves enough;
Who can point the finger of blame,
Who lives on his glass house atop a hill of scorn?
Why do you think that my supercilious thoughts
Are embalmed in superiority, when I only want to live in your world?
But, I am on the outside,
Looking in at myself;
Smoky tendrils of my thoughts escape my eyes,
Which look, to you,
Like the deadened eyes of a gets-it-all-bitch.