That damn phone
sounds as shrill as your
ex-wife.
Just before she
emptied your
wallet in a packed
courthouse. The smell of
barren leather sickens me.
Keep your hard head,
your marshmallow heart
and endless parade
of problems to yourself.
I hold tight to my
strange luck, and realize
men are the enemy.
Napping away on a
bed of lies, I swat furiously
at the swarm of flies
circling your empty brainless
head.
I built you, and you let
her creep in and
break you. Now it's
my job to toss
you with the
rest of the
dead wood littering
my life.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem