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troutcactiPoems
My mother seven five eight, losing till you cannot create Post after ten o clock, I see numbers scratching a mark I’m in the bathroom at seven, the grandeur, the pastures, the foreheads My endure is blasted, singing right to the ones who knew The night’s ticking out till 5 am, 5 am, 5 am That’s where you come from in dark amends, braving send, dark amends The hornets and brass of thunder tail, soothing scale, fairy tale Pristine engulfment of the whale Pour the anchor out of the cup again Take my name so I’m leaning at the eye (Movies fill my eyelids) With the one can’t be tamed To write it up, but see nothing right (Undo gamer sparkle) The penumbra of sharpened cries The bells inside your eyes I need it (Oil of sundry cancer) The mendacity hiding The ghost of the future is too long past Curling jokers in and out of the pout, for a cloud, till I’m drowned The markers on the board **** me out, liquid bound, writing round The masking of the drill cuts the sound, could be found, always loud Under the stars under everyone (Toilet mustard heartache) (Pills that contour grand estate)
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Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC
A primal heart, alone
My mother seven five eight, losing till you cannot create Post after ten o clock, I see numbers scratching a mark I’m in the bathroom at seven, the grandeur, the pastures, the foreheads My endure is blasted, singing right to the ones who knew The night’s ticking out till 5 am, 5 am, 5 am That’s where you come from in dark amends, braving send, dark amends The hornets and brass of thunder tail, soothing scale, fairy tale Pristine engulfment of the whale Pour the anchor out of the cup again Take my name so I’m leaning at the eye (Movies fill my eyelids) With the one can’t be tamed To write it up, but see nothing right (Undo gamer sparkle) The penumbra of sharpened cries The bells inside your eyes I need it (Oil of sundry cancer) The mendacity hiding The ghost of the future is too long past Curling jokers in and out of the pout, for a cloud, till I’m drowned The markers on the board **** me out, liquid bound, writing round The masking of the drill cuts the sound, could be found, always loud Under the stars under everyone (Toilet mustard heartache) (Pills that contour grand estate)
Written by
troutcacti
Chicago
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC
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