I need to write more,
Write till my wrist cramps up,
And I can't write any more,
My fingers are sore
From gripping the pen too hard,
(An unfortunate habit, I've formed over the years, Thank You God!)
I could write stories of this,
And essays of that,
My thoughts on the price of human life,
Is it okay for Mr. Shady Politician hiding behind Cool Shades to have more than one wife,
The people on the other side of the world engaged in civil strife,
Rebels with a cause,
The mothers and wives and children mourn their tragic loss.
Life's a bit like a salad,
The Master Chef threw in a bit of everything,
A little of the good, a little of the crazy, a lot of the mad)
All in some incalculable proportion,
Some Infinillion Island dressing, added to the commotion,
In the end was life a strange smelling potion,
Sampling the dish, He recoiled,
(What is this strange dish?
I cannot even feed this to the fish!)
And knocked over the Bowl,
The contents spread all over the Table,
And continue to spread Itself thin,
Where does It end?
Where does It all begin?