The poets I saw—
the ones they envied,
clean-cut skill,
perfect in articulation.
Lips of orators,
Shakespearean quills—
bequeathed to their palms,
riddle-rs.
They pen on how to change generations,
gain the strength of bulls,
surf tsunamis,
**** racism.
The poets I saw—
I can't unlatch their shoes.
I only type as I wait
for my soup to cool,
with a tear and a red cheek.
I only write
to simmer the screams
in my head.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 8:14 AM UTC
The poets I saw—
the ones they envied,
clean-cut skill,
perfect in articulation.
Lips of orators,
Shakespearean quills—
bequeathed to their palms,
riddle-rs.
They pen on how to change generations,
gain the strength of bulls,
surf tsunamis,
**** racism.
The poets I saw—
I can't unlatch their shoes.
I only type as I wait
for my soup to cool,
with a tear and a red cheek.
I only write
to simmer the screams
in my head.
