April 18, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #14

a photo by Phil Dawson ©

I am that moldy bread

 I punish myself
with an anger
that can be fed

 I listen on occasion
to the voices
in my head

 I reason that
I might be slick
I might be the poems
I might too be only mental
I might live in my menial clutch gardens
I might hear my security devices clicking
I might just be me
somehow taped together
with synchronicity
sometimes narrowing
the focus
of what I fatten myself up with

so as not to notice

 I’ve already devised myself
with oven simple(s)
near felonious plot lines
to keep
from always being
sick with love


1 comment:

  1. This is terrific and true about many of us I think.