The Pain Of The Little Death Poem by Christan Bowen

when the wind blows open the curtain
certain people will be still
they may hold a book to feel the grill of a burn
they may know the mark is hot and red
and bothering them instead of feeling pain
do I remain in chains?
must I be the same? a poem, no domain?

must I chill the champaigne
before I play the game I want you to notice
there is no hocus pocus
but I will ravage the hill with my mower
and I will go lower, and slower
than you allow
everything is a foul
and I play ball professionally

confessionally, the only skin
I want to ink
with pen that will sink the pink
of the sky
when the sky opens up
I will die
yes I am a vampire who stayed too late
my fate? i and death have a date
but wait
I will drink your blood first
I will quinch my thrist