Tight-chested

 

So heavily, hands lay upon anxious chest
They pull and they push and they twist
I hum and I haw but I cannot them best
I wonder what I could have missed
When growing to be such a worried old wreck
Why can’t I just push them away?
These hands that creep into and squeeze at my heart
Uninvited during the day

What to write?

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What to write, what to write, what to write?
My upstairs is missing a light
I feel I am blocked
Like I’m locked in a box
Can’t concoct nor conceive, what to write?

When your head’s in a cloud, what to write?
Do I give in, give up, should I fight?
Do I stick it to blocks
Though my brain feels like rocks
Should I run to the docks
Or hide like a fox?
Maybe breathe noxious toxins, make words like “fomboxins”, catch pox, latch the locks, till I barf in my mocc’sins?

Oh Lord, what to do? I can’t write!

 

The Man Who Drove A Sedan

There once was a man
Who drove a sedan
And fam’ly was his only love.

He drove it to work
(He worked for a jerk)
And park’d in the garage above.

His car-space was small
And so was the hall
Down which he would go to his chair.

Today the hall lamp
Was being a scamp
And fell toward the man, through the air;

When all of a sudden his small brain was flooding with flashes of lives old and new,
And he did a turn, burn’d the kernel of learning that happened on that day of Tue.

There once was a man
Who drove a sedan….
He woke up confused, with hurt head.