Calling from a payphone in the desert
Accompanied by tumbleweeds
And a cactus I like to call Jim
He's my best friend here
And you pick up and answer quicker than
I could even get the words out
Which is good 'cause I didn't really know
What I was going to say
I'm not too good with words
But here I am writing a poem
Which is mostly words
Spiced with punctuation!
Similar to nice burn your tongue off Cajun food
WhichI like
And I suppose You do too, seeing as you
Created it
And all that kind of stuff
Seeing as you don't understand the pain
That I feel
It's not like You've ever been crucified
Or any of that kind of stuff…
It's not like you even know what pain is
Even though your heart breaks a thousand times
Over little, unimportant me
Who has made ignoring you a hobby
And who neglects the things that give her joy
And who talks in third person for no apparent reason
And I'm running out of beautiful epithets and prose
But I imagine those reading this are hanging on to every word
Like my writing's going out of style
So as I wash the dishes from my tea with Jim
And bid the tumbleweeds farewell
I board the bus heading back to the valley with lush green pastures
Dotted with the occasional bovine milk-provider
And I thank You that there's always a way out