This is for you.
Because you said I whirl the poetic.
My brother,
I would hope you see me whole.
Not broken.
But in my hopes I know you see me.
Twisted sideways cramming whipped foods into my mouth.
That's not poetry.
Poetry is giving you something to think about.
Not work for.
I feel myself in your new skins.
The way you touch your jeans and hold your arms out,
reminds me of myself in those years.
tight clothes and the urge to be less restricted.
But you will never be who I was.
Broken and stolen.
Cheap and used.
Wild and still able to act pure.
Like a Poem I explain too easily,
when we all know I have riddled you up on purpose.
Thank you then for all your compliments.
You will never know how much they mean to me.
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