As I dredge eight years
Of my Facebook feed, pulling
Poems poignant? Or Pouts?
Like pulling my teeth,
As I scramble with my time...
Left half-finished moons:
The delicate rib,
Or bowl upon horizon,
Or midnight madness...
Leaves left, ink long dry -
Beg for edits, telling why
So sad...? So depressed...?
No wine, let me whine,
Upon my shoddy sorrows,
I force you to dine!
I don't want to be
Trite, and yet, depression
Seems like all I write!!
Spring is upon us -
The plants are blooming flowers,
Leaves noses' sorrows..
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