poetry

thisaway i was walking down up in the rotterdam Still waking up from some dream I don’t recall A sign on the street-lamp said Too blessed to be stressed My semi-new writing system told me to pen a poem I wasn’t in any eagerness, I had swallowed my eggs Got some smokes and watched that smoking show See I have written more than a fair number Already it’s the next saint patrick’s day I hope in somewhere minutes I will be again in bliss As I was this gone monday with the goils And my washed tongue untied The next line doesn’t enter mind and yet A longing to roam away over the far hills Remains with that desire for her hand Sharp as uncharged shrapnel I am scratched alike the old vinyl recording I am sincere just like those ancient lyrics I am sinning only to be saved down the line I am singing alone in the old-fashioned wee hours As luck would have it love only echoes a feeling Fast as lightning the dawn will arrive with flowers As my fingers reach for her strategically torn stockings And the hollow silence of infidelity burns my conscience I was only in a fantasy yet her eyes bit The truth within my heart Devil demon there would be neither divinity nor sacred dance Without evil’s naked wound Demon devil they could not exist without the good lord’s consent within this thread we prick and press I was walking down up in the rotterdam Still waking up from some dream I don’t recall A sign on the street-lamp said Too blessed to be stressed
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