Up late.

A shapely figure turns into broadcast disasters,

jumping frequencies just to listen

where the conversations are drawn by cowards who will never face you.

These are the fights

that spare our knuckles,

our noses, chins and eye sockets,

these are the ones that happen behind our backs,

softly lingering only long enough to make a judgement

and leaving before someone else can leave a reply.

About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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