August Collage Poem: First Jobs
Strangled thoughts inside and out,
Lost chances rust in lonely sidings.
Tailor driven across hope
buried deep under steelworks
strangled in lies
hope made of granite
and reinforced steel.
The tosser on the dance floor
Throw him into an IT grave.
Once you get used to something, your
imagination loses its mind, use your
imagination and look at something new.
My name is Mildred, a typo I will not feed
in-between has great importance.
She may well be shallow
but, you know,
she may very well be happy.
Love fails. Hope fails. Words remain.
Gloomy days awash with inspiration and purple poo.