Not Rocket Science

I’m not the type to make a scene now maybe
but little things might make me go just crazy.
I keep myself to myself.
It’s good for my health
but may well like just kill me.

The funny thing is that I joke about it
but something tells me that my smile’s just carpet.
I have no need to impress
just need to be best
in my bullet proof vest.

Got a desire to be a real life swapper
to swap my keys in one big bang instant popper.
Get away from it all.
Greener grass in my holiday hall
and top every top with a topper.

If God exists there’s a devil inside maybe maybe
and little things may make big things go quite hazy.
The world is as it is.
It’s got quite a fizz
but clicking and pressing buttons is making it lazy.

Published by aprettykettleofpoetry

John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook. Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic. Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.

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