there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.
was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more
it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.
it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.
trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.
but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.
wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.
please, let me be,
a thought, complete
and in context.
let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.
it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.
that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.
was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more
it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.
it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.
trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.
but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.
wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.
please, let me be,
a thought, complete
and in context.
let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.
it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.
that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.
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