poem

Bent Bricks

I shine like gold and bent bricks
Workin' on several thousand facial ticks
The politics have got me down
Softly frozen on this solid ground
I'm at the corner store
My gun is broken
So I ask politely...
Can I please have a honey bun?
My penmanship comes off like scraped knuckles
It's messy but it tells a fabulous story
After all these famous years spent shootin' from the lip
And post-mortem acid trips
I still can't get a grip
I never learned to skateboard
Inundated by the under appreciated
Fill their ears with whispers...
And promises of better things
Now alleviated they can go searchin' for repairmen for broken wings