To The Old Man
Because it hurts more
When you hide it,
You made yourself up,
As a hero, climbing
Pedestals of ego, through
The pain in your gut.
And the hideous, paralyzed
Old man is bumming
A cigarette on the corner.
You lived that life,
Now I am working on it.
Driven by feats of
Public masturbation.
Envisioning a row of nuns
Walking on the glass staircase,
As I stare below, peeping,
Masturbating all along.
And the half-witted, retarded
Old man is picking up the butts
Off the pavement.
As I peer under the bottom
With my testicles cuffed.
Exalting the cries of
Contemplated madness.
Nothing fake, though.
I hope.
I Hate Long Poems.
And the old man is crying
his eyes out for the love
he lost or never had.
When you hide it,
You made yourself up,
As a hero, climbing
Pedestals of ego, through
The pain in your gut.
And the hideous, paralyzed
Old man is bumming
A cigarette on the corner.
You lived that life,
Now I am working on it.
Driven by feats of
Public masturbation.
Envisioning a row of nuns
Walking on the glass staircase,
As I stare below, peeping,
Masturbating all along.
And the half-witted, retarded
Old man is picking up the butts
Off the pavement.
As I peer under the bottom
With my testicles cuffed.
Exalting the cries of
Contemplated madness.
Nothing fake, though.
I hope.
I Hate Long Poems.
And the old man is crying
his eyes out for the love
he lost or never had.