Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2015
All my apologies, worthless.
All my ego, a *****.

I spend the days peddling my wares through binary,
relapsing into the folded paper daisy chains of atom bombs.

My stomach is a pit of ice;
it winds its way into growth, cold fungus,
clutches my chest like a mastectomy of tar.

I've only had zero peace.

The birds I watch, the scars they show,
leave me stumbling over their hollow little bones,
like the words I try to say to you.
RMatheson
Written by
RMatheson  M/Beating tired bones
(M/Beating tired bones)   
830
   Awesome Annie
Please log in to view and add comments on poems