Whiny Poetry

September 12th, 1998

The ultimate riches of my emotional baggage have corrupted me,
and now I'd give anything to be white trash again,
never debating the finer points of the reality of ethics
with the bathroom mirrors in the houses of strangers.
Why should simplicity be so damned complicated?
Hasn't this universe anything better to do
than make grand displays of irony to an audience of one
who just doesn't give a shit anymore?
If only words could pound like fists,
so I could write some names on the chalkboard 100 times.
It'd be better than writing whiny poetry,
and pretending it did me some kind of good.

Quixote

Perspective