Like that pale
Horse that gallops through
Our thoughts bringing us
A multicolored mane.
new old kid on the blog, with an occasional old or new poem written off the old writer's block
Like that pale
Horse that gallops through
Our thoughts bringing us
A multicolored mane.
It’s a mystery how
The words have always been
Waiting there just as you left them,
Waiting to hear you
Go back.
Mess with innocuous
Ideas long enough
And they become bad
Habits itching
To be scratched
To death
Again and again—
What’s to be done?
Shun yourself
From everything
Blah and dig in, saving
In the process,
Your worthless skin.
Better you
Lose that too bitter
Demeanor quick, Junior—
You’ll find soon enough
It’s far better than becoming
Meaner and meaner.
Confused? Why,
If we were
All going in
The same
Direction, we
Wouldn't need
A compass, even
In the dark,
now
Would we?