"diggita" poems
I care too much
I care not enough.
No one has ever marched
To the beat of my drum.
Dum diggita dum
dum diggita dum
dum diggita
dum dum
dum.
A funeral march
Progressive boredom over the course of my years,
It's a choice.
Throw in a good drink and a good show,
Call me content.
Call me anything you like but a waste.
A waste of time, money, air and space.
Call me a waste. I’ll wake up.
I’ll awake a year ago in my dumb love’s bed, thinking
of the last of his and the first of mine. I’ll show you a waste.
A waste of lines, of lies, of love and of time.
A waste of virginity down the drain, a waste of heartache,
of razor blades,
and pain.
Don’t call me a waste.
Let me sleep in my bed alone
my new cotton scent drowning
away the wasteland of stress pooling beneath my eyes.
Their cigarettes smell the same.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:30 PM UTC