Poetry:
This is called weeding with a wrench.
Bored between conflict here and diamond there,
I dug myself out of the trench;
This is my uprising, like the poor man’s revolt;
Against the hunger and these crooks, squeezing me in my right turns like bolts;
But I should slow down; Take a seat and relax my crown;
It seems-stress can sew fear and loathing;
Clothing for those who oppose;
I’ve been holding back, anger and tears that made my eyes glow;
In the dark I sat, with things on my mind like a hat;
I write it down to cure my frown;
One line at a time like a needle pulling thread;
Scribble scrabble;
Then the ink settles and they marvel;
Our trendy society, do you follow her singular thoughts that she breeds;
Swear to abide by them before I could proceed;
From truths to absolutes she had me crammed;
Sweet Plasma Jam!
I over flowed, grim to the brim;
So I write to take off some, like a trim;
On all five corners of my head;
Quietly hairs fall, and I don’t wait to drop my weight;
Not at all;
Spit it all out I say, it is bad what we ate;
Was it not my body’s need of bread, I would never bother with her dread;
Otherwise I would just be; and my words free;
Out on the sea, there; where no one censors or gets taxed;
But I am in on civilized land, where the majority is walked on like sand;
Careless steps repeated by only a few;
By morning dew and things look new;
This is my chance;
I’m open for a change to be;
Strange at first, the look of things in range;
Rover rolls over clover;
The envious greens;
All eyes on me, and mine on your money;
Rhymes in my sight are bright, all the time, not only when it is sunny;
Weeding through life’s humors, which are not always funny.