My shelf holds worlds;
bending under multi-colored,
peeling teeth; paper raked by pupils.
Cream clenches then spreads,
like a jogger's lung, and I say,
This is why I normally take it black.
Something Steven Spielberg presented
is strapped to my wall, reminding me of
my childhood that has left my memory
faster than I hoped it would.
There's a decaf tin holding mini-presidential tombstones.
I keep a picture of a woman
I don't even know because
she looks happy and I envy that.
This room is hermetically sealing
3 AM insomnia and daydreams.
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
My shelf holds worlds;
bending under multi-colored,
peeling teeth; paper raked by pupils.
Cream clenches then spreads,
like a jogger's lung, and I say,
This is why I normally take it black.
Something Steven Spielberg presented
is strapped to my wall, reminding me of
my childhood that has left my memory
faster than I hoped it would.
There's a decaf tin holding mini-presidential tombstones.
I keep a picture of a woman
I don't even know because
she looks happy and I envy that.
This room is hermetically sealing
3 AM insomnia and daydreams.
Request permission to use this poem