I am too tired to make a poem now.
It’s late, and Hobbits grace my flatted tube.
My stomach hurts from eating way too much,
But I get bored without a bit to taste.
Unorganized, my house, it’s such a mess.
Too many jobs. Too much creative love.
I think too much that I should have a love.
But it’s too late to love this woman now.
My womb is spent, my life a dismal mess.
I brush my teeth, forget to cap the tube.
The counter top has now the minty taste,
But clean it up might take a time too much.
At least I’m not depressed and sullen much.
Who knows! Some man I know might learn to love
This gilded aging dame’s eclectic taste.
Oh, I want one. I just don’t want him now;
For I no longer fit the model’s tube
With bulging gut, a broken flabby mess.
I’ll ne’er find passion’s heart, mine’s such a mess.
This world’s too dark, expecting far too much
Of minds deceived with propaganda’s tube.
We’re taught of lust, too rarely learn of love.
That instant rush, we always want it now!
To kiss too quick, forget to stop to taste.
Too few years left, no freedom here to taste
Democracy is just a fascist mess
And even though the world is waking now
Too few have taken oh so very much
They say we’re free, and sometimes speak of love
To us who sell our lives out to a tube
We are all gone! Our minds a flattened tube
No morals left. Just hate. A bitter taste.
A memory, a thought, the myth of love
Just shrouds what’s real – the whole disgusting mess!
The politicians that we trust too much
Are in it for themselves. We see it now.
And as I watch the tube, the fiery mess,
I realize I taste the fat too much
When I should know that love is always now.