Letters: A Somewhat Casutic reply to God in all his Wisdom

  There is something intrinsically sad,
About love letters. Even when brand new,
You know that they'll just end up planted,
In some old shoe-box,
That gets shoved up,
Under your bed.

  It must be the poisen in ink,
That kills it. It gives me a headache,
When I try to think. My fingers twitch,
The pen moves and scratches out the letters,
Word in strings

  And years later,
Its just those strange kinds of things,
I'll swear I never said,
Nor meant what seems clear,
From the sub-context,
And I believe,
That's what kills it.

  Its because you know the words,
When written in blood,
No matter how sweet,
---are still