This is the reason I don’t write poetry much anymore. This “poem” is more or less a collection of scattered images that have nothing to do with each other. My intention was to make the poem’s meaning so obscure that it’s practically nonexistent, and I think I succeeded.
round headlights burn my eyes.
dust collects in a rut.
fearing life, he lowers his head
into my lap.
i squint in sunlight’s glare.
he cast me out.
wretched, i cry,
pillowing my head on sodden pavement.
the fingers of his incompetent fists
curl tight to his palm.
i cut sorrow from his skin,
peel layers away,
uncover something barren
where there should have been a brain.