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Too Tired for a Title (Free verse) by woodstock20000 My soul, my center, my ground has left me.
I am a empty pot, which serves no purpose,
but to sit there on it's shelf, worthless.
Neither life nor death will welcome me;
not even the words come easily
anymore.
My body cries
for rest
from it's abuses,
but my mind
refuses...
Until
I find
my peace.
Up the ladder:
Drinking before noon with Bukowski
Down the ladder:
Point Blank
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.8
Posted: June 9, 2005 10:10 AM PDT; Last modified: June 9, 2005 10:10 AM PDTWeighted score: 5.2145653 Overall Rank: 4367 Comments:
[9]
Dan garcia-Black @ 66.159.205.67
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9-Jun-05/10:26 AM
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Reply
Things will work out once you fill that empty pot with alcohol. Just look at me!
I wouldn't have believed it, but reading a poem about being too tired to write well is about as exciting as watching a person too tired to move piss his pants on my couch.
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