Viewport width =
September 11, 2017 | by  | in Poetry |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

Poem

I woke up to the cold outside
Left four small quarters on the floor
Picked up my mouth
Sometimes it hurts, it’s sore
The me days linger of burnt toast
Smells sweeter than most
But sweet is a cheater
that is subtly composed

A hard tainted kiss in the morning
Waste, exhaled
In the cracks of my breath
Yawning

Couple gentle pecks throughout my day
A Couple more

Then finally, silently crying and dancing
at the same time
One more, I’m sure
This is me dealing with the cold outside.

 

ART - POEM (anonymous)

Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. Issue 21, Vol 81: Looking Back
  2. Foraging Video Recipes
  3. 5 TV Shows that *Might* Fool Others into Thinking You’re a History Wunderkid
  4. Books With Protagonists Our Age (That Don’t Suck)
  5. Changing Tides
  6. In Defense of the Shitty Sci-Fi Sequel
  7. Avantdale Bowling Club
  8. Medium Playback
  9. The International Angle
  10. The Poo Review
Website-Cover-Photo7

Editor's Pick

This Ain’t a Scene it’s a Goddamned Arm Wrestle

: Interior – Industrial Soviet Beerhall – Night It was late November and cold as hell when I stumbled into the Zhiguli Beer Hall. I was in Moscow, about to take the trans-Mongolian rail line to Beijing, and after finding someone in my hostel who could speak English, had decided