My skin is worn and torn
like a coniferous seed
waiting to grow
into
a towering pine
and then into
a ream of paper
that mostly just
becomes crumpled
individually
and thrown out
like a heart
bleeding far too frequently,
forcefully gushing itself
onto innocent polypropylene
white as purgatory.
My new soft shell
is slowly reborn.
I can't provide comfort
with bulging ****** knuckles
and fingertips burnt,
scarred,
and eyesight that
is mediocre at best.
My hands have seen enough days
to bandage abrasion
and let go of hate.
My detachment never ceases;
but to pick up the slack
of a nervous system gone bad
is to live a deciduous life
perpetually changing seasons.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
My skin is worn and torn
like a coniferous seed
waiting to grow
into
a towering pine
and then into
a ream of paper
that mostly just
becomes crumpled
individually
and thrown out
like a heart
bleeding far too frequently,
forcefully gushing itself
onto innocent polypropylene
white as purgatory.
My new soft shell
is slowly reborn.
I can't provide comfort
with bulging ****** knuckles
and fingertips burnt,
scarred,
and eyesight that
is mediocre at best.
My hands have seen enough days
to bandage abrasion
and let go of hate.
My detachment never ceases;
but to pick up the slack
of a nervous system gone bad
is to live a deciduous life
perpetually changing seasons.
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