waves on a monochrome background

wasted poem


16 years old, the birth of work
no two ways in a rational world
think through time burning wings
harping along a scrupulous machine
reap the worth of bountiful time
pride and fun in sewing rhymes
cut the fabric that clothes all love
to chase the dream that soon becomes
a two page letter and wisdom plans
that burn all days through weary hands
now what was said once is buried soon
the act of reason is a surface fool
a brain that worked into overtime
now aloof and scared to prick what's king
maybe one day there will be a new year
where all the tears will let us sleep