8. Consequences
I have my poem,
Wretched thing,
In perfect order;
Rehearsed
Fashioned
For a purpose
It lies
On the threshold
Of my tongue
I have forged
My weapon
Loaded
With meaning
Meaning to hurt,
And I will use it
Though I know
The pain
Corrosion and regret
Since I have used
Such weapons before. 		A game,
Predicted consequences,
That fools
Like me
Who have not
Learned
To be loved
Have to unfold
And read
Out loud
To the bitter
End.
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