You must feel good about yourself,
such beauty, and such grace...the compromise of any one, any time, any place,
then change, as if you'd never been...underage, to somewhere else.
No wonder
everyone's so quiet...shitting bricks, to give away a thing. You aren't fine art,
and every girl and boy's, the victim of a canvas...you can stretch, to etch your rot upon.
You're no masterpiece, but, think you are.
They were only wasted things, you
threw away...when you were finished 'painting' them,with your corrupted fluids.
Cast away's, to dollar stores...to tasteless 'pre-owned', hand me up's, for
more than you'd pay a fashion store...a whole lot more, what sole's are
worth these days.
You must feel great about yourself, always 'moves' ahead of
anyone...to figure out. No doubt, you're ever caught. You're an advanced
creature, but no, you're not. You just think you are!
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
No comments:
Post a Comment