Feeder

Paper has the metabolism of a hummingbird
And an insatiable appetite for sorrow keeps it
Soaring from feeder to feeder filled with dreams of something sweeter.

Words perch on thin lines of your attention span
Resting for a spell, what with the
Tension of pretension tensing their tendons,
It's no wonder flightless birds sing like shit too.

Not a peep
Nor pip, nor squeak, nor crow
All goes hush
In the bindings of a ringed scribblers margin.

If it were ten years ago, maybe,
You would be writing love stories in doodles of dinosaurs
with laser eyes and handle-bar mustaches,
But now you take notes.
Highlight the important bits
Like how that wouldn't be possible
Because dinosaurs can't grow facial hair.

You've lost your imagination.

Everything is straight row
Two columned and justified.
The irony in that is that there's no ground for it.
Only up-drafts and a faint realization worming it's way into conscientiousness;
That things aren't as fun as they used to be.

And maybe I'm the foolish one for dwelling on the past
But I've lived for a lot less than that
So keep the seasons coming.
I'll scavenge every last memory and weather this weather whether your cloud is dark or light, take flight,
And find that syrupy something sweeter.