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worn-downPoems
Washing sand from cuts on my feet Wiping grains from the corners of my eyes A hundred stones, bouncing together musically Tossed back and forth by rushing salt water, seaweed I sit here in silence, waiting for the last puff Off a cheap cigarette, pulled from cellophane, cheap wrapping Adorning your arms with a ball point pen A human canvas, framed by smiling green eyes And the ocean crashes with tired repetitiveness While we are still unaware that we even exist Or that we will someday, maybe even today, cease
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Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 4:13 PM UTC
Silver
Washing sand from cuts on my feet Wiping grains from the corners of my eyes A hundred stones, bouncing together musically Tossed back and forth by rushing salt water, seaweed I sit here in silence, waiting for the last puff Off a cheap cigarette, pulled from cellophane, cheap wrapping Adorning your arms with a ball point pen A human canvas, framed by smiling green eyes And the ocean crashes with tired repetitiveness While we are still unaware that we even exist Or that we will someday, maybe even today, cease
worn-down
Written by
worn-down
33/M/American
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 4:13 PM UTC
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