Penguens, Bears, And Deranged Fifty Foot Women Poem by Percy Flage

You speak of me,
Like I am the Devil, myself.
Carnage incarnate,
I am just an arousing rouse.
If only you knew.

If only you knew,
How the whole thing,
Feels like a song by Al Green.
Incidentally,
It's in more ways than one,
That's for sure.

If only you knew,
What it means to me,
To lay at your side warm,
And hear that,
You were just starving,
And anyone would suffice.

If you only knew,
If you only knew,
If you only knew.
How could I ever expect something like that from you?
The innocently flickering flame,
Is never aware of the guilt people feel,
After making use of its heat.

So now I'm here.
I've come to your town,
And thrown up on walls,
And sat awkwardly in silence,
Long enough to drive a man insane,
And I can't help but wonder,
If our thoughts have common ground.

If only I knew.
If only.
If only.

20 years of life
20 months of pain
20 weeks of uncertainty
20 days of love
20 hours of poetry

Let's hope it's enough,
To earn my own entry,
In your little black book.
And maybe, with this poem and that book,
We'll stop at the next person,
That waywardly enters our room,
And wonder why we let them get so far.

Oh, Conch Shell,
If I press my ear close enough,
You might let me hear the ocean.
How sad, that there's no water.
None at all for miles, in fact,
And the wind that echoes through you,
Is just the reflection of something,
Something you once truly knew,
But will never be able to experience again,
At least until you stop sitting,
High on your top shelf.

How fitting that my stomach,
Turns and cramps,
More with each word.
I'm a postman,
I burn my stamps,
Let myself get lost in the mail.

I don't know where to stop these words,
How far can any affair fairly fare,
Darling, darling, debonair?
I'd write this down for pages,
If I thought I'd get a book.

(July 4,2010)