Black rage metal
of the 1930s caliber;
sad and angry
is who I am.
‘Cause the world
is crASHing
and sp
i
r
a
l
i
n
g
like a fucking
merry-go-round
caught in a tornado.
Rubber bands snapping
against wrists
in lieu of
shiny sharp things
[which hide in red leather;
typical twenties, you know?]
Words are scratched out
on brittle paper
and loneliness
is like a dust storm;
it’s in your mouth
your hair
your eyes-
it chokes you,
fills your lungs
[like sweet smokey tar]
and kills you.
Author notes
Finally, a poem that isn't a piece of shit.
Comments
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ha, this freakin rocks
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Thanks, I'm proud of it. =]
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