Please excuse my crappy late night voice! D: This is what I was thinking for syllable length and intonations.

Are You Coming To The Con

Poem by Aimee Wood, written in June 2011.


Taste of smoke, oranges, dusty seed.
Executive pens lead around a dozen coked necks,
Erased.  Doesn’t check, let’s it choke.  She hoped we had agreed.
sign on the line.
Don’t teach this old dog new tricks- let her fall down.
No shoes for walking, she’ll strut straight through town.

Hold onto your color- this faded wash is proof.
Secret gardens in the winter, bent collar in the nude.
Baited, conceal my white dress, lock it on the roof
Options bite the clock, this vice feels tighter than it’s price 
 
Tell him she was happy. her white core shines red upon the floor.
Regret like old school picture day, lost on a wednesday  
she reached the other wild shore
Say the word, say it. She looks just like a
Girl on fire, she wears it like a vintage bag
couldn’t swim back, so she gave it all she had.

With a boom and a bang, she tied her heart to a balloon,
Then she blew it all away, feelings all but doomed
she never made it to the moon. or the sun or the stars,
but that accessory of fire is identical to ours.
Don’t count the hours as they turn into the age
to higher flows, this wind will go ‘til someone turns the page.

Aimee Nicole Wood

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