rum, boogie and water
it’s true that on some days
I forget how a poem should
look like and write with my
eyes rather than my head,
as long as I’ve written; it’s fine.
this is one they cannot decline,
an ode to those that are dead,
they are now without an ally,
can no more be misunderstood,
only remembered with bouquets.
my brain sometimes wanders and
I wonder if it’s ashamed of what I’ve
become & sometimes need a break.
is this how a man loses his soul or
is this just me overthinking existence?