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T R S
Poems
Oct 2019
Heckled
I can't tell.
I tried.
But, well...
It's either a splinter of a crack pipe,
or whiskey glass, flacked and fracked about in my finger.
I can't smell.
I'd guess it's burgers.
Or ******.
It sounds so beautiful, it could even be Schroeder from peanuts.
I know I'm not new to this... But.
I brought noodles,
and I'm remiss out of how I should make me new.
Written by
T R S
29/M
(29/M)
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