i write my poem (although not my own- the internet is sharing- though we may like it or not- be it body parts or lonely hearts -the biggest library the world has ever seen!..)
i write my poem (so many seeds sown has it all gone from the icing to the hot-hot- a perfect start to all this yucky ness-what has it become..you tell me..
i write my poem and i don´t know how or why it is a tomb it makes me low it makes me melan- cholic it makes me cry sometimes it makes me go o sometimes i know though what possible use-who said all art is useless-it is a boil upon the ******-dum-di- dum-it kills time i suppose and it makes me think but ideas will certainly be the death of us and a ******* good job too..but meanwhile..
some remain blocked for years they try everything (fear lies at the very rooty-toot..) nothing to loose -it has all been left behind doubt ***** like starving succubi-money, but they have achieved..
some push on through mediocre and even las vegas dessert islands and a couch- zen to love even.. but the relieved-
death on the horizon was it all a dream? within the green room the great line reaches out beseeching..