I had a little trouble getting this one out of my brain, so eh, who knows. I will say this though (in case any of my writing profs read this and decide to judge it like a god): every word is necessary and where I intended it to be. I suppose you could say this is a poem about regret (a popular topic for me lately). But more than that, it's about not knowing you've missed something until it's far, far too late. Sometimes we have our eyes on such a distant prize, we miss the blessings right in front of us, or miss our chance to speak due to any of a number of fears, until suddenly they are no longer offered... Anyway, blah blah. Just read the damn poem.

PEEP SHOW

Bricks of gold
break like butter
beneath this blade
of ambivalent ambition
for pride's perdition.

Sweetly drops these dimensions of dimensia
into inert domestic distractions
and each chunk
of misapropriated choice
gnaws at the corners of your jaw
when you try to inhale
the requiem
for yesterday's handshakes
and youth's double-takes
observing the mistakes
unfolding from the peep hole
of this freak show
we call beauty.