Friday, May 21, 2010

A Poem by Alex Brindle Johnson

This beautiful morning.
The sun,
the blue,the clean,the crisp.
It mocks me.
My stomach has a fist this beautiful morning.
A sickness in my throat.
All that is beautiful hurts.
Beauty means your spod kid glasses.
Beauty means your small person voice.
Beauty means your arms,
your eyes,
your desperation,
your fear.
Beauty means your insecurity.
Who said a relationship founded on paternal instinct shouldn't flourish.
You have me.
My flesh is yours.
Your tantrums own my vital organs
and i grow weaker every day remembering you.

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