The Untitled Self

For who so ever comes to their ruin, I’ve been there before. Your devastation is my pain, While your happiness is my cane. Though, the lines I’ve drawn, Speak little and more. Your smile fills me with shame, For, laughter is no more. Old Walt, and the spectacles of America. While the fire and ice, Dwells on a frosty night. Thomas with his clown In the sky. Morrison and Cobain, Died as god’s in fame. Oh starry night, With its ear gone on the right. King, Satre, and Steinbeck, A cemetery for pets, A theory on consciousness, And east of Eden, It all comes back. My dwellings, My life, My thoughts, And my lost loves. For we are all roaming, In a wilderness of dreams. And I say, Whoever touches this poem, Touches me.