Also

I was crying in the tub looking at my bloody legs.

                      They bled like an iceberg frigid with the diction of Hemmingway

                     They bled a wonderous myriad of John Cage mesositcs

                     They bled in a simple way like the way that Shakespeare's sonnets

bleed into the minds of impressionable teenagers who think they know

                     what it means to be,

                                     or not to know-

                                           that to do is everything we need for our sisters
 
 

And the time we spend writing is a waste if we aren't a generation lost in great cities

                                                                  like New York or Paris or Berlin-

                                                                 We spend our midnights drunken with words,

eating away at the "last great poets" that we have to offer

 

I soak up the soap, and spit, and snot and shower away the draft of a person I am.

                                                                             I reread myself as I flow down the drain.

Dripping with potential.

I dry myself off and stare into the mirror of my yellow tinted bathroom.

 

                                                           I am becoming an iceberg