And I'm sorry about that.
My wrinkling fingers have gotten
Sore.
They are periwinkle and fat,
Like pigs before ham,
They are tired and numb,
Like those who work under the thumb,
But I'm back now, though honestly,
It seems to me that
That is only so when
Good turns to bad.
Cause in reality, poetry
Is for the sad.
Poetry is for the sad, and I'm sad. Hello again, poetry.