the sun drips golden
bidding goodnight to the trees
my melancholy

A humble word, “Y-o-u”

I forget to remember at 11th hour
I remember to forget at 11th hour

to avoid the pitfall of prospective homelessness
which near future prospect
   induces existential angst i confess.

Today (end of rope rhyme rote
   approximately deux orbitz round the sun),
i wanted ta die and bid god riddance grandly
   going gamesomely gra grave,
   de deum, and cymbal crash

to Bing mulct emotionally, physically and spiritually -
   all the grinding hardships would be gone in a flash
how tempting to seek ot a solution sans hemlock
   or other deadly potion,

   whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow and drink from the goblet of
   mortal freedoms renting psych *** under
   with purposelessness mine hash

tag, which bout with suicide
   while n the edge of thirteen -
   Anorexia nervosa defeated -
   then as now experience
   10,000 banshee maniacs whip lash

lacerating, flagellating,
   and repeatedly rousing thoughts
   shin to circle back to why death be not proud
   when life on par with a mash

up of ennui, futile gobbledygook housing incubus
   analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per je ne sais quois spritely spring
   in step happy jollity,
   and levity attempt to make light

   of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the (then) lvii roam min years
   as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter

   the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er of dissonance
   targeted this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled
   from the womb, his reddened ears did bash
from sonic screaming boom causing astir the nurses

   into the maternity ward
   of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet Prancer doth emulate
   a con ***** dancer, cuz ova this rude half
   re: that came a boot
   from genetic chromosomal dna wash.

The thinkers mind does not stop
It beats on time, the bob drop
a small key winds back fates date
The greeter of  death's great gate
is sitting high with devil cries
and still he works, times fly by

the workers hard hands grow old
the metal inside is cold
circadian days were long
and every minute was spent wrong
this grandfather clock looks broke
from the time he spent awoke

he would work without a halt
hes been built, hes not at fault
a self made product, that's true
hes held together with glue
so with the long passing hours
he slowly lost his  power

The second hand too slow to spin
the clocks sound has grown real dim
the repair men cant heal it
a crack and they cant seal it
they speak like it's only trash
It had a hart, a hart thats now ash