I get a strange sense of deja vu;
I've done this all before.
Is it possible the poem was written in another life?
Or a dream?
A dream of a crime I am destined to commit
over and over and over again?
Throwing caution to the wind,
you pushing buttons that only you know exist.
So many buttons for your amusement,
until it isn't funny anymore.
A strangled laugh turns to a strangled cry turns into a crime of passion.
Only that's not true.
The passion was dead a long time ago.
Lisa H. Owens
Shhh. Not a Poet!
Copyright © 2022, Lisa H. Owens and Lisahowens.com
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site's author/owner is strictly prohibited.
Website Built by I Am Mad Art and Autumn Year Round.
Proudly powered by Weebly