| | I wrote this one night after thinking up the last few lines first...as usually happens with stuff that I write.
My hands are dry, as are my eyes.
I've grown weary of my own creation.
Slender fingers touch my face,
The worried lines I can't erase.
Electric hum and tepid air
A shaky hand and fading hair
Alone at night and day, I swear
And aching joints beyond repair.
Pull out a buck and a half in change
The profit of all of my toil today.
I try to shake the jeering cries
Before tomorrow's morning rise.
I hit the bed turn out the light
And plunge myself into the night.
This is the state of one man's mind
Who tried and failed to touch the sky.
But who am I to place the blame?
And what's the sky when you've got fame? |
| | Posted 6/27/2008 1:49 AM - 45 Views - 2 eProps - 5 comments
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