A litany of small regrets of health complaints
of money woes and and working gripes
You must be as sick of it as me
Measuring hours with coffee drinks bought with plastic swipes
No poet, no artist no singer at all
a shuffler in a little church choir
strictly small potatoes unremarkable
toiling blandly at the end of the wire
a litany of false humility and false heart
filled with sputtering short circuited pride
Been in the sand box a long time now
Since I fell out of the ride
I don’t believe in what I hope for
I don’t see anything when I look ahead
So I worry about my health and the government
try not to think too much about how I’ve made this bedwhat
No comments:
Post a Comment