22 Jan 2017 – Sonnet
In junior high I found, to my dismay,
the world was just a heap of hard-shelled nuts
too hard to crack, each one a hearts’ tight grave.
All hairdos without souls. No brains – just butts –
and asses can be had most any place.
“All charm’s deceitful, and all beauty’s vain” –
and though I knew that, I still gave it chase,
my drug of choice an endless source of pain.
Can death unmake the thing that I’ve become:
my mind a lodestone for the world’s crass ways,
my heart a bilge pump of its filth that thrums,
a season ticket holder for its plays
with all the other eyes which stare ahead,
pretending to be quick, but three-fourths dead?