everything i've got's unfinished
my hair color's always changing.
edge of twenty, hurricane
like autumn, rearranging.
one thing that i haven't got,
that i can't claim as mine:
it's true, my feet have got sole, but
it isn't the right kind.
but if i'm no ginger rogers
then you're no fred astaire -
we'll do the waltz or laugh trying,
and make up for skill with flair.
all i've got is little words
to take me faster, higher
all it takes: two syllables,
the spark that starts the fire.
i know i'm yet in progress -
still tangled up, still taking shape
so in this chaos, i take my pen
and, on paperback, make my escape.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment