Missing Out

Despite how good my aim, I’m sure to miss
so badly, you might swear my eye’s gone blind.
But then again, why hit what’s made to kiss?

Since reemerging from seizure’s abyss,
my game’s been off, erratic, way behind —
despite how good my aim, I’m sure to miss.

Strange noise now plagues my poetry – a hiss
as though its bruise has made it more defined.
But then again, why hit what’s made to kiss?

I’m so dysfunctional. I fear I’ll piss
you off, with what’s leftover of my mind.
Despite how good my aim, I’m sure to miss.

My form’s become an easy thing to diss
and laugh at, if to ill you’re so inclined;
but then again, why hit what’s made to kiss?

It’s hit or miss from here on out. As this
one proves, you can’t be sure what I might find.
Despite how good my aim, I’m sure to miss —
but then again, why hit what’s made to kiss?

 
 


 
 

sara and maggie

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