BIRD'S the WORD: A Fowl Poem

In the morning silence and solitude,

half awake, half dressed, half assed;

just me, my thoughts, old memories,

struggling to pen pages on my past.

Ink splatters down upon virgin paper,

like the wet droppings of flying birds;

some striking the page in artful style,

most remain nothing more than turds. 

I know great story resides within me,

so I could never bring myself to quit.

Splatter-splatter, oh what's the matter?

A different day, still the same old shit!

~gj duerrschmidt

For more by this writer:
Orangenous Zone