Drowning in the ocean of life for swimming has no worth
I’d kick to float or maybe Bob, for in death there’s no mirth.
But when you find the boats are full or only for the work,
Or therein look to coast along just pleading searching to the clerk.
But clerks and knowledge won’t be found on these seas we ride.
I just don’t know what else to find in waters I just can’t abide.
The filth of feud from everywhere makes every face seem a foe.
The pictures that we see these days aren’t made to help us flow.
Music doesn’t feel the same it’s forced and fake and bland.
And food becomes the same old mush and soon we’re eating sand.
My hope for things will never die but I know that it’s grown thin.
But who would care what things I feel I write things hoping for gin.