ode to my sleeve
Oh how I wish I had your constant strength
to hold my heart so gracefully. Tenderly
it clings to fabric without worry:
you keep it safe (despite your shortened length).
Stitch by stitch by stitch you hold it high
and low. You suffer to its every whim,
I half expect angels to help, or seraphim
to lend a hand, but no--alone, you try
your very best. You have the hardest chore:
to emote and whore and show my every
passing fancy (and I pass a lot of fancy).
You're a flag announcing emotional war
You are the throne on which my heart sits
Thanks for your patience; my heart can be a bitch.
Here lies a most ridiculous raw youth, indulging himself in the literary graces that he once vowed to eschew. Now he just rocks out.
