deepundergroundpoetry.com

Door

A wooden door.
It's just a door.
And here I sit
on the floor.
Should I go through?
Say no more.
It is progress, it is change.
but now the English language rearranged.
No one speaks it, they speak in tongues
not of English, but of wrongs.
They know no right, know no light.
As if there was none to be tonight.
Or today, I'm not so sure.
I look out the window for a cure.
But no cure sits in my window, just a cat.
She makes me smile, just like that.
'Cocoa.' I call, and she meows so cutely
I kind of forget I'm watching anything.
The only cure for all this wrong, all this corruption
is not something so bad as an explosion.
It is something to wash it away
And simple enough to last for days.
Weeks months, years, centuries.
And that is Music, love, and tea.
Why tea? Because the rest of the drinks
drain you.

So here I sit, come back to live.
With a keyboard, a cup, and my stuff.
And I smile and think still
'Nothing will ever be enough.'
Why?
Because I still haven't walked through the door
Afraid of change,
afraid of illiteracy,
afraid to be like the corrupted.
Because I already am.

Just differently...
...