The Edge

     To see clearly, all the time
     To stride nonchalantly through the crowd
     Glancing here and there
     Not to have to think twice about this
     Or that even this and that
     Maybe even, run and jump

     Get real those days are over
     Now rolling over in bed is a mission
     With spinning head and rolling eyes
     Keep them closed and roll, you say
     Where's the edge, where's the edge


   Sunk in sockets
   Shrivelled from looking out at a tired world
   Torn as in a compactor or tearing thing
   Shoulders slumped and back aching
   A list of things I should do
   Before tomorrow
      Do I care?
   No I don't, life will go on regardless
   And the list will only grow longer
   Or I could whinge about it
   Write whingy poetry
   Post it wide
   Or I could just go to bed
   At 9:30 pm
   Wake up at 12:00 pm and be refreshed
   Go down to the 24 Hour diner and drink bottomless cups
   I probably will - my rego runs out on Friday
   Its my last chance
   Did I tell you I am broke?
   Whinge whinge whinge.


(C) Copyright October, 1999
Ewan Elliott
All Rights Reserved