Nextdoor synapse at 3pm.

A creak.
A drop.
Horn yet ominous.
Frank Blasted.
Pine, a few tabs.
A few screams.
Possible.


Garrett Johnson.

Writing song titles on your hand.

Misery.
Oooh.
Where'd it go.
Right near.
Near your eyes.
Shoelace.
Downer.
And done with.
Because we all know why.


Garrett Johnson.

Earthly blood.

Pushing.
Left inside the crimson.
Ton of
Thorn.
Like the village where we came from.
Green.
Itching.
Dust on the self.
Dust on the shelf where Frida Kahlo stood.
Dust standing dance.
Dust for your health.
And flowers for the some to die.
Just like how I should.




Garrett Johnson.