THE moon pies in your mouth make sweeter
kisses as you lose weight
and you said, “Art, let’s go to the
museum, I wanna hang you on the wall
cause I need to criticize you then leave
you for the other critics of life”
And like the gills and fins of
dying creatures called poets;
fishing for all the right words
so relaxing to bait another hook
with syntax by the ocean eating me
I wear the language necklace of hearts
within a never-existed lesson in love
:: 06-17-2015 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 