Let Their Be Disorder

i have too much of order,
things folded, dust vacuumed, cars shining
like mirrors, i have too much of all these,
crisp, and thin, and smooth,
silk, and confidentialities in the vault,
i am numb, i am tired of all these
orderly things. They kill me.

I like this wantoness, this scampering,
this scattering of everyting i have,
for they are all dangerous. I like
to see my smile get crooked.
Knees that waggle. Hands that
tremble. I have much of the protection.
I am weakened by all these
securities. I am too crispy for
the world and the world does not
like me.

The world is a disorder.
Let it love me that way.
I am too crispy, and crisp
is lonely. I like to have crispy
wings and move away from
here. Today.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!