Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nov 2016
you pulled out your
jim beam in front of
a bunch of little girls
in their tight jeans
who smelled like
pencil shavings
and I could only
stare at the stars,
count, speak softly
count, speak softly
count
speak softly.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
brooke
Written by
brooke
Please log in to view and add comments on poems