Don t feel like home.
Ease a little out.
And all these words alone is nothing like your poem.
Putting in and putting in.
Don t feel like methadone.
A scratching voice all alone.
It s nothing like your baritone.
It s nothing as it seems.
The little that he needs.
It s home.
The little that he sees.
Is nothing he concedes.
It s home.
One uninvited chromosome.
A blanket like the ozone.
It s nothing as it seems.
All that he needs.
It s home.
The little that he frees is nothing he believes.
Saving up for some day.
Something maybe two tone.
Anything of his own.
A chip off the corner stone.
Who s kidding? Rainy day.
A one way ticket headstone.
Occupations overthrown.
Whispered through a megaphone.
It s nothing as it seems.
The little that he needs.
It s home.
The little that he sees is nothing he concedes.
It s home.
And all that he frees.
A little bit of sleep.
It s home.
It s nothing as it seems.
The little that you see it s home. |
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