Archive for March 9th, 2011
Tears run all over my face.
Not hearing words.
Words fry the beauty of the soul.
There are people who have been where I am.
I listen over and over,
wishing I had words like they have music.
I am a potted plant stuck in a cold, dark garage.
A stout vulture on your engraved plates
fueled by pink gratitude.
Big napkins in your wool,
you hide wing nuts
in your worthless statues,
reflecting on lost curbside trophies,
black eyes, evil and full-on hollow.
Dragging, soaking, burning, and stashing.
Another day of not doing
what you were supposed to do.