Drop (March 1999)

look away the maniac
thought once to be the brainiac
at living love and romance (drool),
thought without it life was cruel,
isn’t it ironic?
simply chronic.
what a migraine train
to Hades, ladies,
in first class seats
with nice clean sheets
to mess up with my love making.

shit on a shingle!
where’s Kris Kringle
when i’ve been good
hoping he would
bring me a present
nice and pleasant
somewhat matched
with no heartbreaks attached
(maybe even a picket fence
in some years hence)?
was that too much to ask for fat man?

pardon my rudeness
and excuse the crudeness
when i bash the past
although good to the last

drop.

and a drop is all i feel is left
after all i shared I’m bereft
of anything compared
to what i shared

call it lost or misplaced
unable to be traced
swindled or hijacked
without proper tact
stolen or thieved
i’m still left bereaved
of a piece
or a peace
(whichever you please)
of me that won’t regenerate
i feel like a degenerate
with more left to give
but no strength to give it.

but to live
and not give
would truly be
the epitome
of a dozen-a-dimeful
hazy and crimeful
living
breathing
bitterness seething
work of shame.

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