These days I just tell people what I think.
I couldn’t give a damn who I offend.
I’m living on the edge right to the brink.
I cannot fake it now — I can’t pretend.
There’s nothing more to lose for I’m alone;
that’s how it feels no matter who I’m with.
It’s not that I’ve become a heart of stone;
I’m just a tired and moated monolith.
Yet, though I feel such deadness in my loins
(and maybe even right into my soul)
I still perform the work my Muse enjoins
for to her face I’ve given my parole.
Though you may think myself I’ve undersold
this poem is a challenge to the bold.
© 2012, Alan Morrison