I cannot picture love in any form
until dreams drag it screaming from my subconscious.
For I have felt the stinging ecstasies of its arrival
and spontaneous betrayal.
Perhaps my sharpened tongue speaks against my heart
for the uninvited redened shade it brings to life.
I would gladly drink to my thieving heart's every emotion
if it could accept perfection without locating
the nearest exits.
Do we really believe in personification of organs?
I know that I do not, but it is so much more convenient
to frame those that cannot think.
I darenot attack a blameless brain, for a mutiny could surge.
And enough trouble arises from the ulterior motives
of every thought produced.
I suppose I've led enough of attacks on women's motives
and with every slanderizing word the blame falls solely on me.
So I relinquish all fears of consequence and shades of remorse
to those who have yet to walk through the minefield.
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