deepundergroundpoetry.com
getting trips
Life spent
In cupped hands
Waiting for
The opportune chance…
The next round,
I will surely win,
I hold my
Breath
And bite my
Lip.
The stones that roll
Without moss
And grit,
Marked on every
Back,
Face,
and
Front,
Numbers
Through
1,
5,
and
Six.
With pockets emptied
With little more
Than thoughts,
I cant help but think
Of more rolls than
Not,
That it was easy
To gamble
My dignity,
My name,
My body,
My time,
But when you placed your dice
In my hands
That the choice wasn’t mine.
In cupped hands
Waiting for
The opportune chance…
The next round,
I will surely win,
I hold my
Breath
And bite my
Lip.
The stones that roll
Without moss
And grit,
Marked on every
Back,
Face,
and
Front,
Numbers
Through
1,
5,
and
Six.
With pockets emptied
With little more
Than thoughts,
I cant help but think
Of more rolls than
Not,
That it was easy
To gamble
My dignity,
My name,
My body,
My time,
But when you placed your dice
In my hands
That the choice wasn’t mine.
Published 21st Mar 2013
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