poem ~ 1
- Jun 2
- 1 min read
this is not fog in the air
it is a staining machine
releasing soot and unbreathable
made
from things that do not last
like me and you
in a place that cashes chips
out on life
long-sleeved womanizer in
white bottomed shoes
calls their mom at an angle
telling her it’s not too late.
growing out of the time
where there was no time
for things that fell
or cried.
pride takes hold
cloaked in video games
and backyard battles as the hero
who always wins at the last second.
mirrors cry or is it me.
skin skin skin
paper thin it bleeds until
you watch somebody want to
never bleed again.
clotting in a palace
columned with music flavored
plotting down on land
in good winters, too,
come on, barely hope
see the world wrapped in ice
take it lightly.
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