My style is most first person narrative. But usually its never about the actual me. I find that people sometimes have a hard time seperating the sometimes twisted narrator of the poem, from the poet.

Anyways, this isnt my most recent. About 2 months old. This is the first stanza of The End.

*****

It was not meant to be like this
Not in the darkness of night
Interrupted by the static assault of rain
On tarmac
Where my feet wet in puddles
Puddles of tears
And my hands hold your hands
As they wreNch themselves free
Entangled in your hair
Your wrists are weak and fragile
Yet they are strong and willing
And intent
With the intent
That I see in your eyes as your eyebrows wrinkle
And I don’t recognise you anymore
And I can’t look at your face

****

Comments are welcome. I dont think my writing is maturing fast enough. So please.

"Where my feet wet in puddles"

creates a weird mental image of the speaker's feet peeing in puddles.

Its a typo thats been there since I first wrote it.

Thanx for the comments.

Hmm the fact that its a poem seems to have scared people off.