When you can't ever
seem to
prune yourself,
then just
grow grow grow.

The stone you strive against
with no success,
becomes the perfect
welcome wall
to rest your head.

I sniff old poems
like ***** clothes
to get me through
the weekend.

I got sixty bucks
and three jokes.

One day all of this
will be yours.

While I while hours
and wonder where to be,
by the time the *** is empty,
I like the view from here.

It's been a minute
since i was
permanent,
was wondering
if you'd
write  a bit on me.

You cannot help but cannonball,
you thick-thumbed thing of trying,
mauling all their myth.

You wear down the wicker
they hoped would hold weight.

You say,
"I'm sorry I said them.
I thought they were jokes,
I thought they were poems."

But it's always honest razors
you haul in your hair.