(i really like this one, so i’m only gonna leave it up for a couple days before i take it down to try to get it published. 
)
and the simple truth is this
i am always on fire
i don’t know how to put myself out
and whenever i come close
whenever i open a window
to let the breeze in
or step out into the rain
i can never let that last ounce
of fire die
it is that which i hold onto
as dearly as god
it is that which will follows me
to death’s house
and we’ll stay up all night
talking about the world
and what we remember it was
but first
i will find myself
in the windows of buildings
seventeen actual stories
above the ground
i will find myself in the blaze
of a lamp post on the red curtains
of the stage
i will find myself
in the torches that the righteous
and the rest of bare
i will find myself
in the ashes of a farmhouse
in the absolute middle
of america
i will find myself
gnawing at a desk
with the heat of my hands
and i know
that this is where i’ll die
and i know
that this
is as real
as the bonfire
stretching its arms
across the back of my
beautiful lover
colorado
how could i ever not die for you?
colorado
i don’t have the strength
to crawl away
from your love
colorado
you feed me
this is where i’ll die
just a fire
desperately trying to burn
as long as it can
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012
Very enjoyable thank you for sharing maybe burning so hot like a disco inferno ? just a thought thanks for stopping by my blog
Burn, baby, burn!
rage against the dying of the light – Dylan Thomas
Carl, I always look forward to your comments. That’s exactly what I was trying to say. Damn you, Dylan Thomas for saying it in less words than be, but yeah. I’m so glad you stopped by and left this here.
Yes.
I like this poem too. Good luck on getting it published.
. . . lot’s of luck in getting it published — go for it!
Thank you!
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I didn’t have to read this poem to know that it was mine – (all I had to do was see three words in your tag list, “identity”, “love” , “self-destruction”) – even though thinking that a poem is directed specifically at oneself is, admittedly, something of an occupational hazard…
I know that every drop of a word that I encounter, read across the expanse of these poetry blogs, feeds the coals in my own grate. The heat of these words still glow warm in the palms of my own hands. And as for having, “the strength to crawl away”… (the words which burn me up the most,) I just as soon be farmhouse ashes than have to go.