Park Bench Society

One or two
Numbers don’t tell stories

A or B
Alphabets don’t make up stories

Who does ?
It’s the fucking author

Where’s that bottle of ink ?
Let me pour it all into a bowl
Full of alphabet cereal
And I’ll take it
As my fucking breakfast

I won’t write nomore
Instead, whisper silent prayers
To embrace me in my fucking sleep

When morning comes
Using water from last night rain
Rested on leaves of an ivy plant
As transparent ink

Pissing at the fucking world
I write silent graffiti
On the neighbor’s wall

This entry was posted on Friday, October 14th, 2005 at 8:22 pm and is filed under Poem. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.