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.