yesterday

a book of poems arrived
in the mail from a friend
of mine. every line ryhmed
and talked about flowers
and love, God and sunshine.
they were heartfelt poems,
full of family and religion,
faith and the beauty of
nature. thankfulness. they
were fine poems. i liked
them for what they were,
and for the true emotions
felt and expressed so
simply. they were poems
that i couldn't write even
on my best day. unlike him
i need to scratch at something,
to find the itch, the scab,
the dark cloud, the blood,
the edge, before finding
redemption in the bright
light of summer. i want
to feel the cold in my
feet and fingers. i need
to walk on ice before this.