Another Ironic Poem


I shadowbox the truth
begging for a fight
high on inferiority
we take our places
all made up for the show
every word matters
flung from my soul
abstract boomerangs
never returned
my anger is implied
find it deep in thought
content to sabotage
my best laid plans
need a pill to get it up
can’t wine you
can’t dine you
dates keep passing by
alone on Sunday morn
you praying to gods
I’ll make it through
thick and thin
my insides and my act together
if there is a conductor
he’s drunk
and out of tune
everyone playing
a shattered instrument
nobody hears