A poem from my “Nothing but Nonsense” period (September, 1997 – March, 1998)
Starry eyes have dropped their rain and yet that doesn't mean they'll never leave. Wounded hands are singing, spitting blood and eating salt, trying to make up for the pain that has been taken away. Busted bones will someday heal but something no one will ever hear is the tolling of a broken bell. No one understands but I have to try. It's been two years since the best man turned bad, shelved in a cupboard for too long. So what? So what.
