thankful

Eŋg · 07-07-2015, 09:18 AM

A handful of things I’m rarely thankful for:
my brain, its beauty, and a pair of hands that wrought
the path I forged – a path that’s worn
because I keep snoozing in a circus. Circling
surplus sleepwalkers move without a purpose;
I’m worthless.
Or Earth’s best when she nurtures (my nurse left).
My words shift
spent chemic blood to remind my words’ intent.
In a sense I’m indigent;
I need my Self to reinvest in the idea of me.
I need rhyming to knot my livelier conceits.
I need lines that I jot to provide a concrete
I can flatten my face against.
Slattern, the way she dressed, but natural, amazing breasts.
Pattern: this pays her rent, happens I spray her legs.
After, we make a mess
to capture the paltriest taste of death.
Life that I grip remembers to take a breath.
My mind in a stint where it stays in an ancient tense,
the life that I’ve lived questions the way it went,
It’s an act just like this that I sprang from.
Damn, son.
I’m not thankful that I’m my Dad’s son.
I’m thankful that I’m handsome,
which means my priorities are messed up:
I’ve wounds these fine threads can’t dress up.
Bleeding the thought is cathartic I guess, but
revisiting notions is sort of carving the next cut.
Yet I’m thankful for the hammer, the anvil, the pencil,
shaping my gait for any hardship I went through.

07-07-2015, 09:18 AM	#1
Eŋg rhyme capsule. Join Date: Sep 2018 Posts: 2,150 Rep Power: 0	thankful A handful of things I’m rarely thankful for: my brain, its beauty, and a pair of hands that wrought the path I forged – a path that’s worn because I keep snoozing in a circus. Circling surplus sleepwalkers move without a purpose; I’m worthless. Or Earth’s best when she nurtures (my nurse left). My words shift spent chemic blood to remind my words’ intent. In a sense I’m indigent; I need my Self to reinvest in the idea of me. I need rhyming to knot my livelier conceits. I need lines that I jot to provide a concrete I can flatten my face against. Slattern, the way she dressed, but natural, amazing breasts. Pattern: this pays her rent, happens I spray her legs. After, we make a mess to capture the paltriest taste of death. Life that I grip remembers to take a breath. My mind in a stint where it stays in an ancient tense, the life that I’ve lived questions the way it went, It’s an act just like this that I sprang from. Damn, son. I’m not thankful that I’m my Dad’s son. I’m thankful that I’m handsome, which means my priorities are messed up: I’ve wounds these fine threads can’t dress up. Bleeding the thought is cathartic I guess, but revisiting notions is sort of carving the next cut. Yet I’m thankful for the hammer, the anvil, the pencil, shaping my gait for any hardship I went through.