There is a poem
just beneath this surface
of jumbled thoughts
and nonsensical moments,
banging against the walls,
burning the roof,
huffing and puffing
and threatening to blow
my mental house down
(as well as my mind);
but in the end,
the walls, they hold,
and the roof, the roof
is not on fire,
and the poem slowly grows silent
succumbing to the stronger force
of indifferent apathy,
dying along with its
potential beauty.
Day: May 15, 2009
From The Left
poetryCoincidentally, we
haven’t got a clue
what to do, but
we’ll do it. Or at least
try to get through this
fucked up bit.
Demonstrably, they
tear our side to pieces
caring less and less for
facts and more and more
for deeper and deeper
cuts in to our
collective consciousness
and,
possibly,
(and perhaps cliche’)
our collective soul.
But
I
Don’t
Want
To
Let
You
Pro
Tect
Me
From
My
Self.
And Anyway,
how do you know
what’s best for me
any god damned way?
the sieve and the sand 