Every time I write, I play with fire
I know it is just a matter of time before my luck expires
When you find my 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 you.
After all I have given, how can you think I owe you anything but grace?
Yet I step out on this high wire, teetering and tottering over the mire
You are up in my business and have no business of your own
I warn you: if you mess with me, you will be the one without a home
Stop trying to squeeze me dry like a lime
With love an patience, all is yours in time
Sage Burner Poetry 