I could write pretty,
Give the world lonesome love,
A soupçon of feigned hope
Star shadows above,
But I prefer to give tomorrow its due.

Poetry’s a hill climb
Cobbled by the best
Of broken intentions
Leading straight to
Everlasting poverty.
And damn, man,
I’m as broke
As I can possibly be.

I could claim pity,
Feed off famed writers past,
A hangman’s taught rope
Finding home at last.
Yet I would rather pen psychotropic hue.

Poetry’s a pained path
Graveled, giving no rest
Sinkholes of inventions
Straggling straight through
Sightless fens of beggary.
And damn, man,
I’m as blind
As a man ever could see.