These broken people
whose steps are stumbles,
whose words are either strained and unsure
or sharp as daggers,
they walk so close
their shoulders caress.
These broken people,
they hurt because they are hurting,
they hate because they feel unloved,
they dream because their existence is ******** than the **** filled sewers
that sit stagnantly under their feet
as they walk too close,
as their shoulders caress.
These broken people
with eyes so filled
they spill and spill
down their cheeks
onto their sheets,
they weep without making a sound.
These broken people who ask
Who am I?
They sit in despair
because their tiny brains can’t think up the ******* answer
to this cosmic question.
Who am I?
They wonder,
between the drags from their cigarette mountains.
Who am I?
The question is slurred
because of the spell of intoxication they have put themselves under.
Who am I?
They moan,
from the cold bed of a stranger.
This question continues to bounce around in their skulls
giving them incurable migraines
of the existential variety.
These broken people
we are among them
with tears shed
and mountains of cigarettes,
with pools of sorrow in our wake.
With scars on our shoulders,
scars to caress.
We are just people
and we are in love.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 6:25 PM UTC
These broken people
whose steps are stumbles,
whose words are either strained and unsure
or sharp as daggers,
they walk so close
their shoulders caress.
These broken people,
they hurt because they are hurting,
they hate because they feel unloved,
they dream because their existence is ******** than the **** filled sewers
that sit stagnantly under their feet
as they walk too close,
as their shoulders caress.
These broken people
with eyes so filled
they spill and spill
down their cheeks
onto their sheets,
they weep without making a sound.
These broken people who ask
Who am I?
They sit in despair
because their tiny brains can’t think up the ******* answer
to this cosmic question.
Who am I?
They wonder,
between the drags from their cigarette mountains.
Who am I?
The question is slurred
because of the spell of intoxication they have put themselves under.
Who am I?
They moan,
from the cold bed of a stranger.
This question continues to bounce around in their skulls
giving them incurable migraines
of the existential variety.
These broken people
we are among them
with tears shed
and mountains of cigarettes,
with pools of sorrow in our wake.
With scars on our shoulders,
scars to caress.
We are just people
and we are in love.
