life is
just a set
of
schismatic
watercolors
pastel flurries
in chalkdust
disharmony
a fractured
indecent descent
into senseless
dissent

i make it
a hobby
to scribble
outside the
lines

a semicoherent
collection
of childhood
drawings gone
yellowed
on the fridge
scribbles
in the margins
doodles
in place of
any real answers

i dream of
a long driveway
a box of chalk
and someone
to color
new vistas
on dreary gray

i awaken
to the rain running
all color into
a black sluice
overflowing
the gutters
and i hastily
write another
pointless poem
and hide it
in a red folder
with every other
dream gone to shit