I hic therefore ad hoc
though no one gives a dirty sock.
Respect? The young don't know they're born.
They hit the pillow and behold it's dawn.
But I must drag my ego like a ball
a swollen ball, if you must know it all,
and chain through dark's grim corridors,
through nightmares, sweats and snores.
I'm marked it seems
maybe the wild eyes, could be the beans,
outlaw bandana or as crashing bore
I shatter interest-shards upon the floor.
So that's why I am here. Though I might spout
and mutter drear, at least I'm not thrown out.
YOU ARE READING
Potatoes
PoésieHot, Sweet, Saucy, Spicy - always filling/fattening. Donder - vb. To blunder about aimlessly, not knowing what the feck one is at.
