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Bumpy Smooth Bumpy Smooth
Pen you come again to beg-
Ming and Shelley fight for style-
her thrown bricks in beauty disarray
against his structured house.
I let both you go to go my own-
hand and pen and mind and soul
to let my words abandoned roam.
Paper stacks of Franklins thick;
a laugh
unworthy to a worthy task-
I'd burn the world, a stack of them
to save her beating heart.
Once joyed before
now
torn and sore-
to bring her smile back again,
see her happiness reborn.
Cryptic poets us, Oh, such a bore we be-
let me break that cloudy glass,
frank to meaning free.
My wife the slave of booze so long
at last admits she can't go on.
Sobbing, rehab, asked for, Granted!
Glory! Glory! Glory be!
Break my bank my house my everything,
possessions gained, a canyons toss,
aught illness held to build her heart,
her soul to strength
if chance there be of regained loss;
My life, my joy,
let paintings pass
happily to other's walls,
my cars to hands not mine,
our deeds away, freely signed;
away I pray, I say begone,
all my objects
trickster as a solid wind,
mere atoms held in place,
ephemeral, jested sin.
Dust and grime to me
they be,
traded oh so easily
for genuine happiness in place;
for joy to sing in her eyes,
to trade false whispers,
vodka's hisses
spurning death for life embracing wishes.
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