the output is zero…
slow days at the factory, and futile thoughts of the future for a future’s sake…
seems to me just phases through the waves, and I’m the one taking their time…
no paint nor print, or posture low in synchronicity with any other, just written scrawl…
thoughts and prose of madness, one and all, and manifestos without balls…
where we all seem to stall with forethought, and I can’t take the apathy any more…
you may feel small, but where is your thirst for change of mind…
rise and stand tall where the shadow falls below you as you stride into the night, fearless…
Posted by Friday on January 18th, 2008 in poetry archives. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site.