Sunday, January 17, 2016

Made It To The End

It is not trite to say,
Anything can happen,
The only proof that I'll not die right now,
Is that this poem ends,

With all of the rules and format in place,
Four, four, ten, etcet'ra,
Some ramdom creation with naught to help,
With shelter or sust'nence or my love for ya,

Just a task to do, to feel life has worth,
In this first world country,
Proving that e'en a white male with a house,
Has reason to feel beat,
By life's real'ty,
That ev'ryone's ideal,
Is ultimately the same in and out,
And impossible to make in truth real.

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