This is Irony

I count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,
and stillness in the words of dead poets.

We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.

I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.

A waltz  away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.