Baseball

Your diaphanous neglige, wrinkled, wadded in your purse
like your intentions.
My sycophantish responses kept latent as well.
We both know what we want but won't bring it to light
for fear of the moths of destruction
that might flutter about it.
Yet we still stick together like the needle
that intravenously delivers life to the junkie.
Simeltaneously we become bruised
like track marks.

To want a love you don't dare to vocalize.
The reciprication of these feelings.
They flutter inside our hearts like the butterfly
but also cut deep as if the wings were made of blades.

I loathe this putting away of feelings
into the storage bins of the mind
to be retrived for later usage.
Here the grow the mold of old age
and lose potency.
Their hips break, they're put into nursing homes,
they get alzheimers and forget who and what they are.

Afraid to take that first step that is known
will lead to greatness.
The baseball player who knows his team will win
if only he gets hit by a 90 MPH fastball.
It is the means to the end.
Painful means will bring about an essential end.

Let's step up to the plate.

by Carl A.I.

Other poems of A.I. (35)

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