Saturday, February 21, 2015


Full of bluster.
Full of terror.
Full of crap.

This might be another poem.
This might be a cry for kindness.
This is not a suicide note.

Tired of beginnings.
Tired of endings.
Tired of being caught in the middle.

Full of whimsy.
Full of lust.
Full of spinach.

This may be overwrought.
This may be undercooked.
This is not made up in the least little bit.

Full of questions.
Full of wonder.
Full of light.

Charles Cicirella

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