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half awake and still
filled with last night’s dreams
as my cigarette cries ashes
like a child finding out Santa
isn’t real or an adult finding
out that God isn’t real.
and I sit in this heat
as the wind is choked
by the heavy, Southern humidity.
I often dream of girls
I’ve loved, or tried to love
and how ugly and old
they must be now,
ignoring how ugly and
old I am now. my mind
is fading; or it may be
the pot I smoked for breakfast.
at least in my old age
I’m still getting three squares a day.


Written by burrben

July 22, 2011 at 3:20 pm

Posted in poetry

Tagged with ,

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