The Worst Junk in the British Isles
They say I’m free to write the worst junk in the British Isles
Emptying my thoughts to paper like taking out the trash
On Monday morning, stuffing it into the too-full bin
Hoping that the council will still collect it
My body aches and my mind even worse
My hear feels small today
Not big enough to love others, least of all myself
Just enough to keep paddling down the river,
through the muddy waters,
holding out hope that it leads to the sea.
The tree that transforms the sun into life
I can’t be today
Perhaps this junk will in time compost
And feed the tree of life
That is all I ask today
That is all