Fix

Time drips down the broken clock,
yes we're back to that, one more time.
Let's flip around the loop-di-loop,
I'm running out of rhyme.

Words are sort of nothings,
they're fluffy hangings like the stars.
And like a star, we go out
in the too-bright headlamps of passing cars.

The pop machine was broken today,
couldn't get my fix of caffeine.
Instead, I slept my morning past,
choosing rather to obviate the scene.

Everything looks so much prettier
when you're leafing past our picture page.
You skip the scowl, and move on past,
since dying's all the rage.

I spent twenty minutes on my bathroom floor
just contemplating a drop of sweat.
It's funny, all these metaphors,
the meanings no one will get.

It's all really just a poem,
a poem for a long, long day.
And a poem can't change reality,
can't make the storm clouds buzz away.