Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2010
In my sleeping bag
drawn by a drowsy pencil
and a fragile grip, ******-esque slip;
paper wings blur together,
lines like stale rivers
converging into an ocean;
lids heavy, drool present,
in the spirit of creating
untitled Poetry all night,
but the ***’s worn off,
and now I am ready
to leap into that ocean.
decompoetry
Written by
decompoetry
1.4k
   decompoetry
Please log in to view and add comments on poems