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.
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#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!
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