#gonepoems
Nextdoor synapse at 3pm.
A creak.
A drop.
Horn yet ominous.
Frank Blasted.
Pine, a few tabs.
A few screams.
Possible.
Garrett Johnson.
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 6:36 PM UTC
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.
Sep 30, 2020
Sep 30, 2020 at 8:17 PM UTC
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.
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 10:30 AM UTC