I'm at a loss, involuntarily
withholding words best
put to paper.
Arrangement improper,
prose perhaps?
Phony, fake.
Unsightly to scholarly
eyes, an undignified
force to reckon with.
I wish myself Webster,
or perhaps an Eric Carle.
I find myself Dadaist,
mocking my own meanings.
Ambition lost in a
weathering soul.
Grace in a period of
brutality is a hard sell -
an even bloodier buy.
First it's a black eye,
then a bruised aorta,
then comes the real hurt -
pride in the age of the fall.
I should be writing
instead of laughing.
I should be living
instead of dying.
I should be loving
instead of wondering
what's wrong with a
little more cream in my coffee.
