On brief occasions
very brief, very occasionally
I worry that all the words that spill out so frequently
will one day spin their way into a web I can't talk my way out of.
One day all the words I spew and spit and speak
won't mean a damn thing, because when I'm still and silent
all I see are hands wrapped around me and things I've never done
feet that haven't gone where I wanted them to and
lips that are fuller but angrier
and a life I'll never live is just too much to see floating around behind my eyes
and on the days that these thoughts creep nearer and nearer
I stay in my room, draw the curtains, dim the lights
and mourn the things I might have been.
Oh darling, darling
it doesn't do any good
as it turns out,
I occasionally take applications for my grief.