Given to take.
Prone to fall.
Like Lewis and Campbell
Who the hell is that anyway?
Like a guitar with no slide.
That's better.
This is worse.
Y'know that lack of feeling you get
when you're burning garbage
doesn't matter who's
yours, mine, anybody's
take that empty void
leave it in your heart
to bake on 450
for about 6 months.
And this is what I get.
Creativity left in an ashtray.
Drive left on the side of the road.
Airplanes without parachutes.
Moss on a rolling stone.
And so too, I.
Like so many piss stained couches.
Self abandoned.
Quantumly perpetuating.
What happens to a dream deferred?
It doesn't explode... it doesn't candy over
It simply dissapears.
Swept under the rug
like whatever's left of Jimmy Hoffa
and so many household crocodiles.
