I’ve been short sighted,
by a sidekick’s sort of self image.
And who knows what I could be,
if I would only eat my spinach?
So though it comes naturally,
I have an obligation to acknowledge the risk of rain that soon collapses me.
All my worry in vain as my limbs begin to atrophy.
But what more could you ask of me?
Actually…
Ask of my past,
and every sick serpent,
laid across my path, as broken glass.
I’m quite sure you can do that math.
So I swear, lying on my broken back,
that I’ll nail my ninth life down.
No more fat cat, spinal trapped,
in “I’m fine” wine, trying to drown.
So, I’m sorry if I seem ornery,
your joy is just a bore to me.
Not that I took the time to be acquainted
with the ordinary.
The happy trees I painted,
were all ushered under quarantine.
They threw the backwards book at me,
so I tore out all the pages, and wrote down what it took to bleed.
Just another sad story,
of how the worm on the hook still breathes.
We’re all practicing conformed intent.
Lusting after dreams no more original than the molds in which they pour cement.
And so lies the question,
have we been bested by our cynicism?
With so many lives invested in the jest and endless criticism.
I make plain nouns lead down
trails the hound never found,
because repetition only makes the people frown.
Sure, I could say my own name
a million fucking times.
But I’d rather unwind,
crossing a brilliant line.
Rather aim for Aesop,
constructing resilient rhymes.
Sure, it’s something to aim for,
but I’m just a nosebleed drifter,
bitching about the game’s score.
I’d drink your juice but it stains more.
Aim to fake insane, and make the pain soar.
But really, I just sit alone inside,
and write of rain pour.
We’re all practicing conformed intent.
Dim Opus 