Down the drain.
(I like threes)
The Blind Rose
Can a blind man touch a rose?
Oh surely, he can.
He must shyly climb his fingers
Up its stem.
Pull back, pull back, another trip
To come.
As time grows,
As he grows,
So do his trips to the rose.
He climbs and climbs so high,
Then he rests his fingers on
Satin, savory rose buds.
Oh yes, a blind man can touch a rose.
But then, you ask, how can
He worship such a flimsy, ironic blossom?
Well, every color has a smell.
We are stuck in small boxes
Of green, blue, yes, no.
What about the color of touch?
It exists, ignored by almost all
Except the blind man.
Oh yes, a blind man can worship a rose.
Can a blind man kill a rose?
Oh no, and neither can you.
For roses grow from human hearts
To kill a rose would be to kill oneself.
Can a blind man kill himself?
Definitely not.
Mortality is but a lie from a rock,
A very sly rock at that.
He screams death and we believe him
However he remains intact.
But there is a secret from
The rose that one can only feel.
You may see the rock's lie
And live to dance in circles
But the blind man just basks in the roses
Immortal, like all
The seeing scribblers.
Cigarettes
Bang, bang, bang on the window glass
Come save me- I need cigarettes.
Everyone itches here
Nobody works here.
We are all broken toys
And they are the children,
Trying to put us back together
With Elmer's glue.
We are still broken.
We are still broken.
We are still broken.
Hop on a merry-go-round
Feed us meds, meds, meds
Tell your feelings to be quiet
Let us teach you how to die
But remember, it is quiet time.
Come save me- I need cigarettes.
Your paper degrees cannot win me sanity.
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