qotd, martial advice edition
don't get any ideas

poetry saturday

I thought I'd actually shaken off week-before-last's mystery illness. I even gave my immune system a little pat on the back for being so brave and so strong. As it turns out, the dread illness had merely gone into hiding, where it festered and bred. Now my entire head is the scorched battlefield, where only the brave or evil dare tread.  The doc said so, in not so many words. Woo! My first Z-pack of the new year.

And so, an interactive post:

Let's write together. I'll start the poem. You tell me the next line:

Because sometimes
you find yourself pushing a cart through the Wal-mart of your soul


Comments

where everything means nothing
your cart is still empty

and somehow you're not reassured
by how cheap everything is

And you cannot find the Oreos.

Or the motor oil

and even basic black socks
are hideously designed

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