there is no poetry in this,
in the cold cascade of misery upon misery
upon anger
in teen hearts and
brittle limbs,
eyes red and tired and
sleep forgotten in alleyways and
empty glasses.
was supposed to be longer but here's rest:
where is the poetry in this hopelessness?
perhaps in the attempt at explaining
concrete feet and
cemented brains --
solid only in fear and paralysis and
blood, being the better reminder that
we are alive
(there is no poetry
in the despair that comes
with this realisation).
