My pain isn’t plain on the pane of the insane.
So perturbed with the absurd I curb the verb.
Stopped in my tracks with tracks on my back
I lickety-split by throwing a fit.
I spout about til I rout the doubt.
I get stuck by luck in the fallout.
Under the bus there’s always a Gus
who guesses my stresses and dresses my messes.
Are you the who who gives a hoot?
Or the pout who gives a shout from the round about?
My back’s bus tracks from the drive-by hacks, now lax.
I rise at sunrise to surmise the prize that denies the lies.
Here goes the rose, the thorn scorned, past mourned,
no longer torn in two but into the view.
I see I’m free to reframe the blame.
Once lame, no more the same, sane in the gain.
Daring to care no longer a scare…