Poor baby
Blow your nose on my sleeve
Mucus is closeness
I live to be connected
Let your tears fall on my face
As mine lick your wounds
Grieve in each others hands
For the boy who lies on shattered glass
Wet flowers wither and mold
Upon skid marks
The paper poems begin to
brown, folding up on all corners
Smeared ink
from rain and tears
It's difficult to tell the difference between
sincerity
&& attention whores
Death in high school is just a stage
His shrine of windshield wipers and broken reflectors
&& crumpled letters from stangers
who only knew him by association
A stage
As the actors call
"scene"
Author notes
theres too much to handle
i hate high school
i hate how everyones fake
whether you admit it or not
fuck us and all our pre destined human nature
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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I love the imagery that you've put in this poem. It's sad but beautiful. amazing write...it's going under my bookmarked poems
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Very sad, made me think of a young boy killed in a crash last week, a schoolfriend of my children. The flowers and messages are fading now beside the tree, and I know my daughter was deeply affected by the waste of such a young life. Beautifully written with excellent imagery throughout. Interesting author's note. Great piece, thanks for sharing.
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