Whatever is the point
I’ll be on the edge
Sincerity’s an ashtray
A speech impediment
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Whatever is the point
I’ll be on the edge
Sincerity’s an ashtray
A speech impediment
It’s senseless to sense this
phase from May to June.
These fences stand defenseless
like guards on duty do.
In truth there are no changes
or phases of the moon,
it’s just a formed perspective,
outsiders share the view.
I won’t be getting better
Though I’ll play it like I do
You know I’m not that clever
Or else then I’d be you—
I’m good as a quick laugh
Sharp and direct
Needless to say the least
There’s no reason to react
Whenever it feels
I’ve nothing left,
I’ve always got a little.
And a pocket full of salt—
The romantic in me
Wants to kick the charade
And love you less like Shakespeare—
But it’s this Portrait
Of Dorian Gray that’s damned me Wilde
I don’t dare
We were so full of dread
Neglect and forlorn
That it made us invincible
And Oddballs to others
I’m a writer at my worst
Never at my best
In the belly of the beast
I’m boiled like the rest.
So now all we get is tomorrow.
While yesterday’s dreams unravel.
Ticking like a clock are we
ever able to grasp the moment?
Present in ourselves,
though hardly in another.
Tomorrow’s but a shadow
hurrying to catch up.
I’ve got this Rolodex emotion
Whose contacts intertwine
Like a bramble of commotion
When I’ve dropped another line