my bed to make
when all emotion and tasks
seems phony and fake
things I have to do
that just don’t seem true
all the just causes come at a cost
even when you know in advance they are lost
the surreal sunny day mocks
and seemingly only money can talk
while this bull shit poem may only walk
but what is there to save
cause all intentions good or bad
in the grave
all structures lead to ruin
empathy where is thy sting
hark the herald angels
prophesy says the antichrist
we will soon anoint
just before we reach the apocalyptic
PERSONAL RULE # ONE
Always obey the Lord of Small Tasks, sitting around in your gaunch moaning poor me will not improve anything.
For instance this morning I awoke at 05:30 hrs. and should have had a small snack and then departed on my morning ride.
Instead I had a raging migraine and the bright light of the dawn was like having nails hammered into my head.
Instead of sucking it up and ignoring the pain I lapsed into a “poor me” mode and after composing and posting the Vanishing Point went back to bed. Expect many revisions of the poem because its one that’s been on the back burner for a couple of years and is somewhat mediocre in its present form.
Came to, after a fitful sleep and decided to give myself a kick in the butt and get moving. So have cleaned up my body, washed my dishes. cleaned up my washroom emptied the trash, put everything in its correct place, resisted the urge to turn on the idiot box and now feeling much better typed out this addendum