The Icebox
Don't get me wrong here, I love summerBut see to me, the problem with the month of June is that it comes to soon
And maybe you'll agree when all your liquids freeze, your veins are clogged and your door stays locked
Leaving the blood in your head and the ink in your pen colder than an icebox
Clogged and locked your essence slows tips and stops
I'd give you three minutes, tops
I went over some old poems
The prose bends and turns to loose ends
It's all words wound wackily happily like a wibbly wobbly death note
I loved you enough to sqeeze you twice into every single word I wrote
Down, obstacles stomped into ground
I was the luckiest fucking clown ever to still succed in sounding clever
But like everything else I let it slip, slip off your limber lips and unto my greasy fingertips
Because you see, to me, the problem with this month of June is that it comes too soon
Or maybe it just smells too much like you
I spend my days watching from my room with my eyes in a spoon
As the leaves leave and the fall falls
And by christmas time the only thing on my wish list is that I'd have anything at all to wish for
If I was Santa Claus, I'd fight for the cause
And drop my presents off here and there among the lonely chimney tops
But I can't even grow a beard
Poetry by lou bergs
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Written on 2005-08-05 at 22:27
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