I gave my soul away, yesterday.
One hundred and two poems,
Stuck into a photo album,
Brown cover, cream pages,
That's me, all sixteen years and three months.
Neatly contained and indexed, dated for ease.
Chornologically orderd.
Now some one else is holding me,
Not quite knowing what they have,
Reading those poems and sighing,
For they are awful.
They are, after all, my soul.
My wallet, made of plastic,
Has a girl, on a duck,
Floating away into some unknown sky.
Is she so small, to fit on its back?
Or is the duck a product of radition
Or ill done scientific research?
Did it ask her polite to ride,
Or was she kidnapped, never to see
Her little mom or tiny pop?
Ah, rhetorics!
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