Love To Myself
screams,
messages
on the screen -
your cellular therapy
flails like laundry
in March
i'm no techno queen
but writing is
just like
standing here
doin my half-assed
James Dean
(unlit cigarette, in the corner
of my mouth)
i revive a dream scene -
scratchin your eyes out
but, not being ambidextrious
(at the same time )
my long fingers
split sound barriers
i sky my eyes knee-deep
in half a rainbow
write more promises
to keep
love to myself
Deborah Russell, © 2005
|