Some more old poetry

Drone

I never had an artistic temperament before
they stuck me inside this drab cubicle
so I tried to pin colored pictures on the grey walls
and they would not stick.
All the edges came loose like me,
pinned to the desk
with thoughts like butterfly wings, fully extended
in the seemingly open air of some absurd collector's dark basement.
I dream of flowering fields, the sweet freedom of flying.

Untitled

Eggshells, though thin and fragile,
irritate when their cracked remains
stay underfoot for months on end.
You can pretend you feel nothing, 

mask the crunching noises with loud assertions
that all is perfectly well, but
it might be easier to stop
spilling the contents of your only basket,
and find someone to help clean up the old mess