It's Just a Poem

Done
Finished
Clear the cannons.
Slip back under your sheets
With your putative,
Mascara stained eyes.
You can’t handle
The morning after?
Go back east
To your daddy
And his Saab.
Take your teasing tongue
And ignominious tendencies,
I’ve had my fill.

“When are you gonna 
Write me a poem?”
You pester and plea.
“It takes time, you see,”
I encourage. 
“You can’t force such things.”
Certainly you’ve made the moment ripe,
Your reason has arrived.
Enjoy it,
You homage,
Your petroglyph.
Read it to your friends,
Remember it for your kids,
But remind ‘em
You ain’t the first.

The torpid stoicism 
Settling in you,
It’s normal,
They’re always shocked
Wondering where they went wrong.
You can’t write this kind of shit.
You can’t imagine this sort of drama.
Only in the conception
Of this death,
In finally conceiving
What the mirror returns,
You can hope
To look beyond
Your cherubic perception,
Glance at what your daddy
Was most afraid of.

Your shades won’t cut it
The mascara can’t hide it.
You’ve been revealed
Everyone’s smelled your stench.
Just pray the world’s still got
An ounce of sympathy
Cause my well’s run dry
And you’ve sucked my soul clean

Stop crying.
I can’t help my precocial soul
My itinerant existence.
I’m the vagabond
Your daddy warned you about
I’m the jerk
Your momma lusted for.
Cuss me
Kiss me
Curse me
Fuck me
I’m hanging 
By a thread
And have too many patches
Left to stitch.

In any case,
It’s just a poem;
Don’t take it so hard
You knew it was coming
You could feel it
In your bowels.

Take your Pepto
Light a candle
You’ll forget about it soon enough
Well…
Except for this poem.