Little things fuck us up.
Window, not dangerous,
rough cement with weary passengers,
spiders within lines,
maybe bloated purple,
sinking dreary air,
and the cat crosses over and over.
Rest for better grip.
Alcoholism, American Culture, Compassion, Depression, Fear, Isolation, Poems, Poetry, Spirituality
This entry was posted on April 10, 2011, 9:10 pm and is filed under Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through RSS 2.0.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
#1 by carldagostino on April 11, 2011 - 5:20 am
Matching socks? Who has matching socks? Don’t you have sock monsters where you live?They hide in the washing machines and eat just one of each pair of socks, so you never have a matching pair. I have limited their success because I have black socks only.
#2 by Carl on April 11, 2011 - 7:15 pm
I never have matches. Furthermore, I have hundreds of shades of black. I don’t know how that happens. The monster must color the socks he doesn’t eat.
#3 by Margaret on April 11, 2011 - 11:38 am
That is beautiful, and far more eloquent than I could express it. I like the first line as much as the last! M.
#4 by Carl on April 11, 2011 - 7:16 pm
Oh, thank you, Margaret, but your words are far more eloquent, and they inspire!
Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:
You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Twitter account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Facebook account. ( Log Out / Change )
You are commenting using your Google+ account. ( Log Out / Change )
Connecting to %s
Notify me of new comments via email.
Notify me of new posts via email.
Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
Join 6,064 other followers
Blog at WordPress.com.