DIzzy Up the Girl

So I have a problem, and I am going to admit it

across these wires and into these pages of pulp

and regret, of memories and dreams, anyway,


I guess it's time for me to quit

dragging these goddamn feet of mine

and just come out with it already.


So here it goes, now that I've got your attention,

both fully and half-heartedly, I have a problem


where if what I am writing cannot

be dedicated to someone or help another

feel better about themselves or a pain

plaguing them as it once plagued me, then


I feel as though I should not write at all.


So when I miss the calming feel of ink

on my skin as it also courses through my veins

and when I miss the cruel yet friendly laughter

of the page I reach out to those I met during

our darkest hours. It is a faulty attempt to

cleanse the ache that one of us is bound to hold

within our soul far too tightly for help to enter.


Which makes it sound as though

I'm using you love, but this is not the case -


you are simply a muse I cannot give up.

You are a strawberry I can neither pick

or dip in chocolate after the bottle of wine

has been totally drained by the both of us.


You are too many untitled pieces and

a drawer full of letters I can't bring

myself to send until after your address

changes for the hundredth time this year.


And now that I've told the whole world

of my problem, my addiction, my shame,


I hope you can forgive me for making it sound

as though I've used you all these years


just to cry enough for my heart

to see clearly again -


just for my blood to return

to these veins of mine

and purge some of this

excess ink building up


til the point of maximum


dizziness.