the poetry knook, the poetry of stephen m. james

If I pick one, she will be torn

so many beautiful flowers
if I pick one, she will be torn,
no one will see her except in my vase
back home,
and I can’t let that happen.
a children’s store crayon
that I break between my fingers is
no longer my favorite color, god, everything
is white light, black pain–my life on a graying canvas.


Leave a Reply



© 1993-2024 by Stephen M. James.