Once the echo of despair subsides,
There will shine a thin layer of clarity.
Take care of that surface…
They told me for years
To take care of my insides,
“You won’t be handsome forever,” they said.
“Am I all that handsome?” I thought,
Scratching the scarce patches
Of my hopeless facial hair…
Jon used to call me Patch Adams,
He used to call me lots of things,
He used to say that he was my father;
He’s always been funny,
Not to mention, fucker has a full beard…
I had a dream recently, in which
I kept breaking wine glasses in my hand,
And that’s all I remember.
Sometimes, I see canopies in my papers,
Focus comes and goes,
But anger has it’s own nest here,
Anger is comfy…Strange, I know.
Rambling thoughts and numbing agents,
Lead me quietly to my careless corner.
Love can defeat it all,
But as they say,
One must take care of his insides,
One won’t be handsome forever.