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critter-khanPoems
Peel my dystopian fruit, the empty husk of my labor. Abhor me again, or still. Fill my nostrils with hate, a mate for my disgust. Bleed in colors only dreamt, secrets kept as seed for youth. Drowning abjections, pearls of wisdom kept in tight-lipped shells. Smells of conspiracy and shame. Is this what I was suppose to learn, oh, wayward parents? Is this what I was suppose to find, destiny unkind? And find it I did not, I woke to it's rot. Laying upon my shoddy pillow, face the same as mine, death in the eyes. Yet, therein, still, is kindled embers of lost fires. Pitfall rituals discarded, hard-hearted and fitful. All for the glory of no glory.
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Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 1:44 PM UTC
Empty Husk of Lost Glory
Peel my dystopian fruit, the empty husk of my labor. Abhor me again, or still. Fill my nostrils with hate, a mate for my disgust. Bleed in colors only dreamt, secrets kept as seed for youth. Drowning abjections, pearls of wisdom kept in tight-lipped shells. Smells of conspiracy and shame. Is this what I was suppose to learn, oh, wayward parents? Is this what I was suppose to find, destiny unkind? And find it I did not, I woke to it's rot. Laying upon my shoddy pillow, face the same as mine, death in the eyes. Yet, therein, still, is kindled embers of lost fires. Pitfall rituals discarded, hard-hearted and fitful. All for the glory of no glory.
critter-khan
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critter-khan
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 1:44 PM UTC
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