clear thumbtacks hold the few blades of grass collected from the meadows of the Magnificent Days. no baby blanket can wrap up these times; no perfume from the 80's mask such greatness. driving home at 8:56 in february feels like four-thirteen a.m. while it's raining (how strange) we don't feel like talking, we don't feel like junk food but scratchy blankets to tuck in the snow-less mountains this time of year. something has to cover them, because our society doesn't approve of ****** or happiness, really for our smoke detectors are dead and the mirrors are stained the rugs are frayed and our poetry *****. our candles smell like grandmothers but that future for us isn't so far away. we focus on the water that will burst past the controlled walls in a few months; that's so close (too close) to tell because we are told we won't end up being what we thought we'd wanted at sixteen. our christmas lights are getting dull and we don't strive to make people jealous anymore. we just sulk on the loss of the Magnificent Days, bright and kind.
is this what it feels like to write a ****** poem in a few minutes