Ah,
uncaptured thoughts.

There's seldom a prospect more frightening to me,
thus I don a notebook & glorious pen
as my sword and shield
with which I'll tirelessly defend
my ever wavering memory.

I've calluses from working,
but writing always leaves me
with a couple fresh blisters.

Even the loudest dreams
drift off into oblivion
upon my waking.

Held true an honest sword, never.

Yet still a firm grip persists
from a grudge long clenched.


Gleaming and bitterly cold,
this sharpened-heartstring blade.
Forged from flesh betrayed,
handed down through ages of old.

Concrete barriers with trees painted on them?
Buildings with murals of rural landscapes?

I want to paint a grassy field like a parking lot.
I want to carve a cityscape into a cliff face.
I want to dye the sky yellow, jaundice with smog.

Bring the city to country a bit.