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I ring out the clouds like toxic wascloths
and watch as the people catch the drops
on their naive tongues.
A shower for the idiotic--
a recycled and reused chaos.
But they will always refill,
there will always be more damage to be done.
I glance down at my eyelashes--
the droplets in perfect stands of pearls
and I think to myself,
Why are the most dangerous things
always the most beautiful?
We won't call it love,

untill we get the chills;

We all like to be kept on our toes.

I ring out my mind like a toxic washcloth,

and watch as the words crash

onto the paper and make a big splash.

...but what happens when my mind runs dry?

I can feel it trickling down to the last drop...

A drought for the poetic,

a desert for the thoughtful.

We won't call it art
until we get the chills,

and I'm dying to send shivers up your spine.