My Words

I am separate from the words I've written.
I read them like they're someone else's; even after the ones I write now,
I will be a new person, dead and withered–
then born again, ready to reread what was once written.

Please do not dance to these words.
These words aren't music, 
these words are general exhalations put together to make a tongue tingle.
These words aren't a salt lamp and a slam session,
they're a cup of tap water that’s to be slugged savagely and pissed out quick.
These words aren't a small county journalism job,
They're new khakis with pockets just deep enough to hold a beer.

Each word wasted is tragedy.
It's like a smile surrounded by bloody gums.
It's a gay middle aged sage in love with a straight teenage genius,
its' an axe made out of butter.
Allow me to cut off my eyelids and take each step with blind conviction:
Hoping to step away with something scrupulous.