I've lost all the eloquence
I had in my youth.
No more soliloquies to sing to Shakespeare.
No pretty polished words
Rolling out of my mouth in verbose patterns.
Permutated with proper punctuation.
Enunciated ecstasy, syntactically strewn all around.
A cluster **** of cleverly constructed.
Sentences.
Philologically
These Latin rites and roots sound so.
Pompous.
Derivative.
What's my politics of the English language?
No,
Not me.
I prefer new slang written on old scripts.
And.
I always thought French etymology
Was exquisite.
Until I got lost in the suffixes piling up
Ontop of the prefixes.
I suppose it's
Better, than the parochial slang
That
Recently I've been saying
Dim rugged dull and dreary
Stodgy, little words.
I blurt out my base roots of Saxons.
I speak of earth and dirt and yeomen
In my lowly German.
My
Monosyllabic mutterings of a ***** making it up.
In grunts and moans
And ugly things
Glottal stops.
One axiom.
One goal.
Barking out a reduction.
Me, and,
Brevity's sake.
So let's be blunt.
I'm too old for tomorrows.
Hard to have a midlife crises
When the first half was already spent
On tempting an overdose.
To spite the drugs.
Sung in an apropos song.
And it's kinda late for teenage angst.
When I grow up
Has been happening for two
Decades
So
Why do I still feel this way?
So strange and unusual
Fumbling through my words
Like an incompetent juggler
A lexical masterpiece
Clogged in Glossolia.
Now,
Don't worry, friend.
I don't even understand what I'm
trying to say.
Whether profound
Or pathetic.
Certainly
I don't take it back.