My thumb migrates, and it
depresses me.
I stare at people,
and they don't like it,
apparently.
(I never knew)
I feel that M.C.Escher's
impossible houses and endless stairs,
Mobius strips and Penrose triangles
have nothing on the
ceaseless,
returning,
looping,
never ending ruts
in my mind.
The greyness of my thoughts
is made up entirely
of black and white lines;
narrowing and widening
for darker and lighter shades.
Currently,
the white lines
are thin
like the threads of a spiderweb.
It makes sense, kind of.
(But not really; I just think that poems
should end
on a hopeful note.)
Comments
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OMG! i love your style here. So very interesting. And your only 15??? this is some very sophisticated poetry.
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Thanks for commenting!
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