Waste
Beneath my mild-mannered secret self
it's getting rather cramped.
My day-face, the mask;
a stuffy rubber Barbie-head shroud
without gap at lips or nose.
All-devouring waste,
this day-job is a means
without end.
No time left to don my cape
and soar, leap, blaze
though the inks and colors
of my imagination.
I have gifts.
They hang, dusty, upon a nail
in the derelict bat-cave of my brain.
it's getting rather cramped.
My day-face, the mask;
a stuffy rubber Barbie-head shroud
without gap at lips or nose.
All-devouring waste,
this day-job is a means
without end.
No time left to don my cape
and soar, leap, blaze
though the inks and colors
of my imagination.
I have gifts.
They hang, dusty, upon a nail
in the derelict bat-cave of my brain.
posted by TwistedNoggin at 5:46 PM
3 Comments:
...and yet here you share your gifts.
I think my mask is becoming thinner over time. I like that, and yet it's scary at the same time.
vivid. it's nice. now go on and put on that cape and soar. ;)
"a means without end." I hate that feeling. I don't have it that often. But it is not a good one when it comes.
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