The billions of poems that I've seen.
My work always looking so unjust and unclean
I'm always the hardest on myself
for I know I can stuff it all on a shelf.
I can file away my rage for another day
since I've known this is all I could say.
I waste my time with this smalltime shit
just so I can work it out and write a hit.
I blank out all the good
and sit here knocking on wood.
Hoping to make you all smile
while I trudge this writers mile.
Is it all just a lost cause
where I can't break all the laws?
Is this a place of my mental insecurity
while I fade away into obscurity?

12/02/1999

Posted on 12/15/2003
Copyright © 2025 Aaron Howard