Writing Into Poems Anyway
A semblance of purgatory,
My own flatulence due to unknown depravity.
Wildflowers burst and I buckle like a bronco.
The dynamite is all wet, anyway.
I bristle in lawns from over 20 years ago.
My own feelings are hard to define.
Probing into slipping into holes.
My other mind is on vacation somewhere,
Or in a very important meeting,
With everything figured out.
Whereas I am a snail wearing a great crown,
The world spinning in missed direction.
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