I grew used to thinking I could heal
the lost and brokenhearted.
I thought the arms of my immense heart
could fill your pillaged spirit with blood.
Now I carry your untouchable pain
like a dead son in my arms.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
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Blog Archive
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2006
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April
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- Poem
- The Man in Your Garden
- Giving up T.V.
- Jaw
- Habit
- The Coffeeshop's Last Week
- Lost Things
- Driving Tired at Night
- Ecdysis
- Work Routine
- The Imagination of Fathers
- Ugly Days
- ...But the Rent's Low
- Poems That Fail
- Creation
- Hometown
- Acceptance
- Losing the National Debate--A Consolation
- Responsibility
- One Man Down
- Influence
- The Workers Wait Out the Tornado
- Violence of Mind
- Love Note to Me, from Me
- Arguments at Work
- Morning, Early Spring
- Night
- Weather Change
- Routine
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April
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