Romantically hopeless, the hopeless romantic. I've dreamed on both sides of the Atlantic and didn't panic.
Off guard and stranded, you act like I planned it.
Killing me softly as usual. So organic is your love.
Now, you can say the game was called on the account of stupid, even if you say I command it.
I broke most of the Commandments, so we are no longer inseperable.
Everything seems higher when you lay face down in your pity.
I blame my ego problems on gravity.
Why can't I fall up?
I took lovers for granted and just didn't understand it.
I flew and never practiced the landings, Dammit.
So, now I get flustered and frantic.
Between the last and the next, I'm hopelessly sandwiched.
What's really on the menu.
If not the good stuff, I'll still continue,
to taste the lonely burger with sad sauce. No pickle.
It's all we are serving at this time.
Now, I know what heart burn feels like.
Don't go shopping for a new lover on an empty stomach.
You may throw up something better than what you find.
Time and oppurtunity, never working at the same rate.
1 comment:
"Why can't I fall up?" I enjoyed the reflection, self-admonishment and frustration with the quirky humor that runs though this poem. A pity that the good folks at the Globe will miss hearing Walton read tonight, but best wishes for his health also.
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