Middle school memories
and the same damn results.
One more loser
wrapped in trails of filth,
trails leading nowhere
but the same reflection of memory.
The black cloud followed,
manifesting luck into nothing
but drummed up busts.
The wellspring of magic is over,
washed up before it began,
and the wishes are all that remain.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Poem-A-Day: Day 365
Dried Up
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.