poetry

Bomb

Dig me up,
but do it right.
Or I promise to
put up a fight.
A damn good fight,
it’ll blow you away
and you won’t know what hit you.
If I didn’t get you then
I’ll be sure to waste you.
Stuff me in your pocket;
I’ll discreetly tick away.
Count up and down the minutes
in a pointless, quiet rage,
until I disengage
again.
I didn’t even make it to ten
till five
waiting to be alive
or die.
I just need something
other than this.
It’s filling me.
It’s killing you.
Ripping us apart
and casting bridges to the sea –
what is this feeling?
What’s left of me?
What are we?
What’s left?
This simple beating.

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