Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sep 2019
Held in a concrete roach shell.

Smiling, I had hated charming shaving.

Little, bitty shavings.

Shredded.

And held an inch above my head
when I never knew a knowing rapture.

It'll hold.
It held watertight.
And it'll capture when I'm right.
T R S
Written by
T R S  29/M
(29/M)   
88
   ---
Please log in to view and add comments on poems