Seasoned
A Poem. Free-Verse.
I’ve got my eyes on you sir.
You’ve been sneaky before.
What time were you born?
Oh?
You don’t know?
How truly mysterious…
Yes. This is me being facetious.
One may possibly tell by tone , yet I wouldn’t put my money on me acting “grown.”
This whole month has been sarcastic.
This having nothing to do with your antics,
nor emotional baggage…
Perfectly sewn hat tricks.
It may seem apparent to you that I’ve got the blues.
Nothing you, or I could do.
Can you answer any of my questions?
Without thinking…
for a matter of 10 seconds?
Didn’t think so, neither did you.
My pen glides metaphorically…
“Metaphorically?” you ask?
Metaphorically speaking — …
I am the smoke and you are the gun.
You always get to have all the fun.
Slight of hand
by way of mouth.
Entry of revolver
by way of self doubt.
Count —
breath in and breath…
