Every time I write, I play with fire
I know it is just a matter of time before my luck expires
When you find these words there will be hell to pay for what I didn’t say to your face
The dicks I didn’t count, the stories I didn’t recount to you.
After all I have given, how can you think I owe you anything but grace?
Yet I step out again on this high wire, reeling over the mire
You are all up in my business, yet have no business of your own
I warn you: if you mess with me enough, you will be the one without a home
Stop trying to squeeze me dry
With love and patience, it’ll all be yours in time
Sage Burner Poetry 