© 2021 HePo
Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads.
Become a member
under my fingernails into skin
doused in clean! the filth is killed!
then I spit at it.
caress my brow in a palm, any warm pocket of flesh
a grandmother’s *****
the spine of a leaf
my dog’s velvet-soft triangle-shaped ear
anything that will let my grief get some rest
sorrow is heavy trash bag to haul
find me a bellhop or a sidewalk construction man
something with biceps and a hardened face. someone who can clean **** up.
these shards could maim a bystander
why force one to bleed such an unnecessary truth
wouldn't want to wreck these shiny floors
better to keep it hid, better tighten my lips around it
how do -you- feel under these fluorescent lights?
who is studying who?
I understand now my circus of an existence was born
in a tight space
between the exhausted description of my histories
-the official ones- and
the juicy stuff
encrypted in me
to view and add comments on poems