Clumsy

My stuff.
They fall,
break.
They fly,
scatter.
I trip,
bump,
scratch myself.
All I do
is pick up
stuff
and pick
myself up.

I am getting
nowhere.
It's crazy.
I'm pretty tired.
I guess I better
sleep.

By Boots Tirol
This poem inspired from
a text message i sent to
my friend Mini.
June 28, 2007