SELF-POEM
No beach to walk on nor hand to hold.
Dirt and aching bones still fight
For breath at midnight.
Liquor fog, numbing loneliness
And bad knees,
Too much time and mind to live with.
Beauty does not nurture this beast,
Rather she leaves him as a feast for the worms.
Calloused hands can rarely know a soft
And thrilling touch.
They must only labor and bleed
Until they perish in the uncaring dust.
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