ThE pREcoCIOuS LittLE PoEm

ThE pREcoCIOuS LittLE PoEm

I like that you’re reading me
Says the precocious little poem,
Preocupado con palabras mejor.  

The death of my fifty-eighth brain cell
Succumbs to psychosis of language,
To which, this poem, says “drink on!”  

I have always been a sucker for advice
From poems. Jack, black, on the rocks.  

I like how this precocious little poem
Has already given me wickedly bad advice.
Trouble is, the poem likes it too.  

I swear these things have a life of their own.
And the poem hates me for disclosing
Too much of its complicated secrets.  

Like dark chocolate, honey, and butter,
Or a horse romping through your veins,
You smile like the freak you truly are. 

Because, we are all responsibly bad
- life is too stressful to be otherwise.
Says the precocious little poem.  

I wonder if it unfolded in threes
Because of it, or because of me.
Me! Says the poem, precociously.

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