My pen is the Mayflower of thoughts that I wouldn't know
sentenced to wake cowards unconscious in hooded lobes.
bent by the wave's power that tosses it's wooden hull,
but entropy takes hours so odds're it's good to go...
...at least till I hit the shore, ink blots of a bookish hope
but now Plymouth is marked by a significant cost
understanding and awareness for an innocence lost
epiphanies scar my looseleaf with ink-stippled thoughts
simplicity wrought with insecurity, blurred by the thinnest of dots
these precious signature flaws, won't rest a minute to stop
singing the melodies of maladies that Whitman could not
this the dimmest of plots, the struggle to come to terms
with your shadows and still manage to go stumbling undeterred
my pen can't handle another word, so I ask what Walt would do
and sleep in agreement: "I am large (I contain multitudes)"
|