Bad Poetry

If this city is a light bulb,
then I am a moth.

Out of the darkness I am drawn to it.
My wings beat against the glass.
I rest my forehead against its smooth, hot surface before I begin my next assault.

And how do I feel to it?
all fluttery wings and furry body and blind wanting?

I don’t know what I want from this light bulb but I know I want it bad.
Furthermore –
I don’t know how to get it.

So I’ll just keep circling
and colliding
and pleading LET ME IN LET ME IN

Until?