Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Earth is Sick

All is fresh, clean, and ideal.
Unrealistic expectations to place
on dirty humans, the hobos of the street.
We are not discreet,
standing on feet
doubled over by limbs
weighted down by guts and ribs
and on top of it all,
the brain compartment
bounded by skull, flesh, hair, maybe
a hat, and a mouth that speaks too much
when it shouldn't be heard.
The eyes that go on blinking endlessly.
Dull breathing in and out the nose.
Ears that remain fixated to the dropping of
change to the ground.
Your feet take off running,
just to catch some metal.
What does this life mean at all?

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