Yes, a while it has been. I've missed you. I'm sure you missed me. Anyway, I am writing. Mostly it's on the personal blog . . . sometimes movie reviews . . . they seem to be hard to write . . . all most as hard as writing a poem.
Heart
to some girl or other but it’s always
found its way back home when it grew tired
of playing with others, stomped on by neglect . . .
used to prop open doors, forced to watch
as they moved everything they owned
out of the house . . . out of my life . . . forever.
to seeing it lying about, on the kitchen floor,
me searching for its beat
between the cushions of the couch.
Heart
I
can't find my heart! I know I've got one somewhere.
I
have at times loaned it out, here and thereto some girl or other but it’s always
found its way back home when it grew tired
of playing with others, stomped on by neglect . . .
used to prop open doors, forced to watch
as they moved everything they owned
out of the house . . . out of my life . . . forever.
I
know, I know . . . what use is a heart anyway?
A
very useless thing, but I've grown accustomedto seeing it lying about, on the kitchen floor,
me searching for its beat
between the cushions of the couch.
Hard
to give up on some things even when
you realize they're no longer relevant.
—Woodie
o8-16-12