Poems of Entrapment

Here’s a song. Imagine singing it to music written in 10/4. Better yet, just read it:

I Keep Bumping Into Myself

I

keep

bumping

into myself

I

keep

bumping

into myself in the dark

Gotta push me out of the way

Or I’ll never turn on the light

Never escape the night

Can’t get anything right

I keep bumping into myself

Into myself in the dark

Into myself in the dark

Nothing but death, nothing but death

No air to breath, no light to see

I did it to me

In the bottom of my mug

There lives a earthy slug

It’s world is nice and round

Everything’s easy its found

I think I am that slug

No reason to leave my mug

The walls are made of my flesh

My flesh is made of my thought

My thought is made of porcelain

My soul is is starting to rot.

 —

In the morning

I start to dream

I start to fight and run

In the evening I go to sleep

but my dreams are done

I only think I’m depressed when I read my own poetry. Jeesh! Here’s something a bit more uplifting:

dasy

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