Sunday, 28 July 2013


I have this urge,
To send out all my love,
And put it to a good beat,
Or make it rhyme,
But it doesn't.

None of it rhymes
And the rhythm it has,
Sticks and irritates,
Itches and throbs.

I have this urge,
To spit and smoke,
Drink and toke,
Profane and prod,
But the more I do,
The further from God,
I remain.

None of it makes sense,
None of it is adequate,
None of it fits in
To the twelve-step antidote.

I have this urge,
That make me twitch,
I have the urge
And I think it makes me alive,
Makes me human.

But I am wrong.
The urge only makes me desperate,
And long,
For what I can't have,
Or what isn't there,
Or what I can't get,
Or what is already lost,
What is hopeless,
Or comes at too high a cost.

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