Poems are cancer to progress
by Johnny CrimsonI throw dice at the wicked,
a card game.
I've dealt deals from elbow deep
and screamed into the Pythagorean's caverns.
Give me shelter, hence the Converse and slicker;
I'm good for it.
A dope thrower,
I've felt through these things, fist deep and still managed to massage
the fear out.
An abused dog.
A shelter dog.
A rescued dog.
A house dog.
A dead...
03/03/2017
