Maybe the earth
is out of control
Lord knows
there are danger signs
on every street corner
Perhaps the man-
in the moon
is just a giant spy,
named peeping Tom.
Maybe the stars-
are just pieces of
ancient french lace
delicately cut by
an angel hell bent on
impressing God.
I'm not the one to ask.
I believe I am no one
special.
Yes, I have a body
and a rather ill mind.
Yet somehow I still
function.
Not very well, mind you.
I wanted to die-
once before
sweet pharmaceuticals in
hand
I do pour out these
strange words to
myself-
still I can't escape.
Now to the real issue-
I walk around with knees
pristine from lack of prayer
I have a well worn bible
that I stole from a
Holiday Inn in Omaha
It smells of pine sol and
musty phrases.
Maybe God finds me
to ignorant to answer.
I'm not the one to ask
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem