Everywhere I go,
No matter the pull I tread low'
Low beneath the underpass and gutter
Filled with slime grime and clutter
Of mind
Of rats
And delinquents not men
Let loose in a remote controlled pen
Freer are pigs and caged little hens
We don't know we chase
An unquenchable thirst
And blindly can't see the fishing wire
That it's dangled from in front of our faces.

How would I draw me?
In pencil on time stained paper?
On the canvas of future so dreamy?
Or on a mirror with brushstrokes much braver?
Certainly not in cyberspace even thinner
Where there's everything but real stars that glimmer
Cause to me, you see, fellow maverick,
All that is pure we can't draw and wear like a fabric
It's lived breathed and loved
It's etched into your senses and leaves you for dead
For you to rise again like the morning sun
With a painting to show to your darling young ones,
Without form, style and genre,
So take the water and gulp then go sculpt nothing
And leave to go discover in the romance of mystery.

Today you'll find me in the role of home sick slick,
Owning a back street stage in an auditorium of ghosts,
I'll take my bow and go on down to an amber haven of disillusioned bravery.
I'll wake to the sound of drums rumbling in my gut,
wash my pale face with water filled with paint,
And then I'll swipe the toast, smile ready to boast,
wishing I'd be behind some walls and a moat.

A.J Simmons '17. ©