Monday, December 06, 2004

not poetry, not haiku

Sore, blistered hands I sit and type,
a good weekend, a great day, I might,
relocate and find the light,
that went missing amidst all the hype.

No words can express how I feel,
what a cliched, cliched deal,
there's a word for everything,
or a phrase with similar meaning.

I'm radiating with a certain energy,
lethargy is all behind me,
I need some sleep, but yet I don't,
its a waste of time so that I won't.

My head is filled with grooves and joints,
a massive puzzle from any viewpoint,
a giant problem with multiple solutions,
but there can only be one conclusion.

What is real, and what is not?
What is vague, and what is hot?
What do I mean by 'what is hot'?
Its nothing, I just needed to rhyme with 'not'.

If something comes up thats my wish,
I hope it comes up before my dish,
dinner that is, in case you were wondering,
nothing to say, nothing to sing.

Here ends the transmission of the day,
removing excess electrons, thats my way,
the blog is like a memory dump,
just have to steer clear of the slump,
if for a living, this I do,
that'd worry both me and you.