Close Examination

I wonder if my poetry is cycling
maybe on a bike
on a wheel
around a corner or a bend
or like the days of the week

If my words are tired
Do they need a drink of water?
Shall I give them a place to rest?
Could they possibly bear to be used
in another heartbreak
or tragedy?

Sometimes spoken like lyrics,
almost melodic.
Too curly, too pretty,
pulling apart straight strands of hair.
Uncertain if I they should be put up
or strewn across my back.
Who will clean them up?
It seems I have forgotten.

No more clouds or sunshine
or hearts or love or gushy words.
They have been thrown away,
distasteful now.
Leaving stains behind on my paper,
always there.

The page breaks, I have evolved
The stains do not ease.