Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 26
Grey trousers with holes but few compared to his light-skin-toned shirt. One leg on the other, with a dead stare at a stack of wood shining on the fiery skylight.

it looks
he took the rights
never thinking
the same turns
make a spiral

The poverty-stricken skin and the hard-labour muscles aren’t frightening; that head's imagination or its deep void can’t be less terrifying.

the pale eyes
were toneless
—one might take
them for blind—
but underneath flesh
and inside the hollow heart
sits a little blue guy
whose chirps
aren’t recognised

The man sits in coldness. Waiting for nothing. Wishing for nothing. Numb of thinking. Sick of creating meaning.

still ******* air
and as alive as any other
I posted this on my Substack on 17/04/2024
Rick Barooah
Written by
Rick Barooah  16/M
(16/M)   
244
   Eetu Manninen
Please log in to view and add comments on poems