Bruise

Some days, my poetry is just another bruise

to  tend;  another  victim  to  plant. Nothing

is   profound.  Nothing  is  exceptional.  The

earth  is  just a  stupid dog  chasing  its  tail.

And, I am just another flea   sucking   blood

from its a*s until one   of us  dies. I can feel

the glint in my   eye turning cold.   Nothing

reminds     me   of  anything. All   is   futile.

Today,       futility is   God. This has been a

hopeless    prayer with  no         destination.

If you find the poor corpse, please bury it

for me. It was once a beautiful idea.

Reviews

[Amy Bumpas]

I love the ending:If you find the poor corpse, please bury it

for me. It was once a beautiful idea.

Poetry a bruise, and then our inspiration goes away.
I never thought of it like that before. Nice imagery here.

[Kenneth The Poet]

Should I bury you at the Hundredth Meridian and get Ry Cooder to sing your eulogy?

Nice work again.

[Kerry O'Connor]

The poor corpse... once a beautiful idea... I wish I had a way to get some of these ideas and use them myself. Learn to share the genius, will you?!