Buckley's Boots

I'm running laps in a circle called consciousness

Til i grow so old i can't hear

Myself thinking outloud

Wearing dirty shoes I nicknamed employment, I stumble around

And around

And arond and around

And around

 

I don't mind being miserable

If some individual feels less alone

I'll sing in silent poetry for their sake/

Then I'll tuck my tail and go home praying someone

Would help me.

 

 

Back to where tears are lyrics and tissues become notebooks.

A trashcan full of memorable thoughts that I think should

Have been written on something.

Or sang to someone in a wail like Jeff Buckley's praise

To the ever so hurtful love.

A request for grace and mercy to be granted, or a lover

To revisit me.

If only i had his boots, I could cast off these dirty shoes, laced with writer's block

And dishonorable lyricism.

I could be famous, rich, happy...for a moment.

Then die in my youth.

Reviews

[Butch Decatoria]

I really like this poem, your message is understood. Keep on truckin'....
Let's not use tissue to wipe our noses - if that tissue has poetry written on it, lol.

~~Pfluffer