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You are a vapor that appears for a little while and then vanishes away. James 4:14 |
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I dare my soul to bare to put it all out there so be aware how little I care about what I wear let everybody stare if I dress with flair or grow my hair this I swear if you I scare say a prayer don't compare my derriere to some laissez-faire jerk in despair. |
| Upon my simple soul there grew an ugly mole the darkest blue with red and ragged edges, I used to always pray one day it'd go away as my earthly body slowly ages. But now it always sits just to give me fits as I watch the sore swell up and grow One day very soon under a pallid moon I'll cast a magic spell to make it glow. I'll mix up some blue dye the color of the sky with some garish green radium, then everyone will see my crazy sorcery alive it will eventually become. I'll be father to a son when the deed is done I'll teach it to be oh so very nice, Then will be my hope My son be more than trope and appreciate my pretend sacrifice. |
I've grown tired, Of the habits I've hired, They ache my brain and bone. I pray they die. My lullaby is, They finally leave me alone. |
| Here I sit beside my bed, Random thoughts inside my head, It doesn't matter what is said, Still, you must read on. Did you know I once had a sore? Cancer! Don't have it anymore, My doctor hollowed out the core, I hope it will stay gone. Once had a dog named Ike, I taught him how to ride a bike, That's a lie I said to psych, you into reading on. There's nothing more I have to say, All my thoughts have gone away, I hope you have a pleasant day, In other words, "Write on!" |
| My mama said One day boy your gonna find big trouble, If you don't learn to love the Lord, you're gonna find it double. I nodded but inside I laughed because I couldn't see, How God could care in the least what's happening with me. |
| He loves to have hot coffee every morning after waking, Though there're many other pleasures he knows he's forsaking. Like marmalade and pickle juice, it doesn't seem quite right, To start the day the same way that it would end at night. |
| Little Andy Acorn lived high up in a tree, One day found he was born to write bad poetry. |
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