Nothing can move me to poetry today,
the pieces kept coming and the juggler
had a terrible time choosing and it was
not poetic,
nor ballet,
the wrong shoes were on the wrong feet,
the keyboard bruises these tired fingers,
that were grabbing and clutching and
holding onto nothing,
that was mine,
feeling hips and muscles that have,
bent and pulled like pork without
that satisfaction,
cause I try,
and I try,
and I try,
but the day is over and we were left,
or we left,
all behind, unable to do more,
as the clock kept ticking,
and our coats and skin kept wicking
rain from the sky,
we left them in chaos,
we left them in a hurry,
this was no theory,
necks and backs and vertebrae,
could all swear that we had carried
the weight of their world,
my two sons and I, in April
which is good for many things...
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Nothing can move me to poetry today,
the pieces kept coming and the juggler
had a terrible time choosing and it was
not poetic,
nor ballet,
the wrong shoes were on the wrong feet,
the keyboard bruises these tired fingers,
that were grabbing and clutching and
holding onto nothing,
that was mine,
feeling hips and muscles that have,
bent and pulled like pork without
that satisfaction,
cause I try,
and I try,
and I try,
but the day is over and we were left,
or we left,
all behind, unable to do more,
as the clock kept ticking,
and our coats and skin kept wicking
rain from the sky,
we left them in chaos,
we left them in a hurry,
this was no theory,
necks and backs and vertebrae,
could all swear that we had carried
the weight of their world,
my two sons and I, in April
which is good for many things...
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