How ironic the insight
that my mind
spends much of it’s time
blind
to the reality that it is
stuck in the head
which is stuck up the ***
of a blundering fool

In a very big house
on a hill made of money
Rising to the sky
from the ground
An overweight man
Fat from ill-gotten gains
picked from all the pockets
in town

Be not a martyr
with emotional pain
And do not barter
You’ll only suffer it’s gain
It thinks that it’s use
is to hang from a noose
bleed on the soul
to leave a stubborn stain

A violin
for a single flower
Cellos for all
the gray barren trees
An orchestra
and it’s infinite power
for an ‘Ode to Joy’
to set the world at ease

There are some mornings
upon my awakening
A new day’s been granted
and it’s there for the taking
I assemble myself
from bad parts off the shelf
My house of cards stands
but not without shaking

Ah, the ripened Autumn skies
Stained by rustic colored dyes
Bleeding from a fading sun
Pleased it's work is nearly done

Criticism of oneself
Is often the harshest
Do unto you
As you would have others
Do unto you