Friday, June 3, 2011

Sweet Jane

I was carrying a bag, ripped at the seams
I was punching visions, that seemed all too mean
If I could have feigned, I'd have chosen brevity
But I had words to say...
after all, didn't it stink too much of reality?

I went on to battle ennui
I tore it down, but it left a scar on me
Now I keep laughter gas at the ready
I wear it like a super hero who has no alternate identity.

I came across the end of everything
but it's got nothing on me
It's a poem captive in another poem
a dream ripping through the seams
that grips and claws at me.