This Mad Poetry
As long as somebody is reading
whatever is penned,
then it all is relevant in the end.
Not quite dead yet,
there still is an armory of feelings
contained within this head
skirting the edge
pulling leaves from the trees
crushing autumn stems
fluids sticky on these hands
Crazed yellow jackets
fearfully aware of the end
wanting to go out
in a stinging blaze of glory
Any object is fair game
nameless blameless eternal pain
These words are nothing more
than random thoughts that occurred
Seeing a connection
drawing a line
from the ridiculous to the sublime
Surreal life,
filled with such strife
some has-been diary
typed pages of irony,
this mad poetry
mathiasthom
written 8/31/10
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