There Is A Helicopter In My Pocket

After being scolded I sit isolated

In the corner of the room

I’ve been forever alone

Ever since coming out of the womb

I sit there quietly waiting

With nothing to reveal

Patiently with no words spoken

From life I file for a repeal

My pockets are empty

Not even a hint of last week’s lint

With inquisitive blue eyes

I began to squint

Anticlimactic stories overshadow

Not even I, in a lover’s quarrel

Letting my possessions be my climax

For you, a fifty-dollar oral

Contemplating yesterday’s dreams

Among piles of discarded X’s hearts

Kissing many leads into an abyss of nowhere

I diagram, I plot, I’m making my charts

Sailing the uncharted seas

These pockets vacant for your nest

Wind carries me forward afloat

Dime-less in function, I am put to the test

Hands covered in dirty graphite

Burying every minute of my conviction

Weapons known; discoveries unexplored

Back on my knees, it is my addiction

© 2010 David Greg Harth

10.03.18.18:17:33@550MadisonNY