Schiz===0 Poem by Christopher Andrew

as soon as i type my words disappear
i try to hard to disarm my fear
now i sit in this boring place,
nothing to gaze, nothing to waste

pretend the sun is a mantle
and confront the night on a cantle
and i'd rather rhyme than make any sense
because sense is my main past tense

my knees are bent sore from this sit
and my face tells a sad prison wit
reckless love and much hubris
cite this source bald Mainer