A Place For Morose
It’s time to put aside my pen and pout awhile.
Forty years of dreams squashed like a beer can
under the wheel of a wild vintage car.
It’s time to sulk, to bathe myself in self-hatred.
Brooding on my past failures to create,
a box I created and can’t escape.
Let the gloom of the night roll slowly over me.
Showing the failure, I was born to be.
Hang on the cross for all eternity.
But just as Prometheus, bore his daily due,
Liver picked, torn, a bleeding tatter.
I return expecting a difference.
Please allow to me my daily state of morose,
doesn’t last longer than a cigarette.
Now ready to strive forward once again.
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