Back soon

Laugh,
write about
love and bite me awake,
let me
shake those cobwebs from
the rafters,
clear my mind and listen to
you.

What’s what for if not to write more
and it doesn’t matter if you don’t understand,

I
get therapy
100 bucks a session,
to cure depression?
or to prove my obsessions
are real?

I wonder if dry stone walls
get wet when it’s raining,

more from the pointless
appeasing the helpless
into the maelstrom
again.

I read poetry
use it as medicine,

an elixir to fix ya
said
the rhymer

but no time for him today because
today is a Saturday.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.