Tippler

I have far less words
Far lesser time
There is a sun for me to swallow
Without a whiff of wine
Will the wild man keep, open his shop
Till I find some coin
For a single drop
This sober world is not for me
All colored one way
So none may see
The boiling rainbow in someone’s yard
Or the aces aligned in another’s card
Those worry lines on a toddler’s face
And the moral codes we wear as brace
Cause it will break the hives
It will free the bees
Who shall hum that honey, truly
Taste like grease
One that winds your watch
One that grinds your wheel
One that drives you on
One that holds you still
For this world is full of paradox
You buy makeup as cure for chickenpox
And put band-aid upon a broken heart
If willing to trade the spare parts
So all in all
This place is sick
Filled with filth as if the bladder’s weak
And none clever enough to make it stop
Nor kind to lend me for a single drop.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you. View all posts by TheHumanAnvil