"grout" poems
Insomnia,
Insomnia,
I wish that you would die.
Why is it that you ****** me?
You laugh as you make me cry.
Feelings that help conspire,
My heart to skip a beat.
The pressure of my blood rises higher,
To cure my sadness I continue to eat.
A monster grows inside of me,
His name I do not know.
All of this peculiar controversy,
Conspiracies begin to grow.
Not knowing who or what I am,
I start to lose my head.
While my head forms
it's acidic jam,
It soaks up into my bed.
Deadly forces fight inside,
My brain stops it's function.
Unconventional disfunctions collide,
Like a sentence without conjunction.
Distancing myself from society,
I'll sleep forever lonely.
Friends are like your enemies,
So late to realize they're phony.
Love has been lost,
Some time ago.
I wish I had a companion.
Misery,
Inside of me.
A woman's touch will make,
This loneliness inside of me go.
Questioning the nature of humanity,
I feel I'm betraying the lord.
Constant coexisting insanity,
Starts when one becomes bored.
Boarding up these windows,
The storm rolls in above.
As peers become your hated foes,
Hate transformed from love.
Waking up this very day,
I notice a familiar sensation,
Every dawn is like today,
With no spontaneous creation.
Night comes about,
I fail to sleep,
Instead I start to shout.
Counting sheep,
Is useless,
As my heart fails to grout.
Insomnia,
Insomnia,
Why won't you let me be?
Too many things exhaust my mind.
I'd like to go to sleep.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
family friends since we were small
tracing grout in linoleum floors
I watched your dad pull those tapes out
he drew his weapon you drew yores
I can't be mad I say to this day
generations cursed
my first boyfriend shook his head
"I thought I was your first?"
there was a lump in my throat
and I thought back to that game
little frog ran over by the cars
you taught me how to skip through lanes
first friend that I ever had
I still think that you knew better
simply "child's innocence"
crayon written apology letter
floral pattern sheets
I was a flower at full bloom
until you flung me on that bed
I wilted in that room
you told me sometimes that it hurts
but it'll be super quick
that I cannot say anything
people will think I'm sick
It all goes black soon after that
red stain, metal taste, a puncture
Did the right thing after the fact
though frozen like a sculpture
you went on and on again
and never really paid
those girls carried it with them
through 1st and 2nd grade
and now I am a grown up
with something in me hollow
a little froggy in my throat that I still cant seem to swallow
I told myself I'd get better
through hell or through high water
but then felt you pluck more petals
when I heard you had a daughter
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 2:11 PM UTC
If you've not done it then you are a liar too
The luxury of the able-bodied to have a sneaky little poo
Look left, look right, there's nobody about
A peaceful time for what's needed now
A better handwash and a cleaner surround,
from the ceiling to extractor fan
Even onto the white grout
I'm not one to judge as I'd been there before
From a night in Yates's where they want your key to sniff coke
These private, uncompromising rooms have a life of their own, with stories I will not joke
The people of most Wetherspoons have a disabled key they use on a daily basis
Nothing wrong with them all, the odd one with a genuine NHS bracelet,
I tell you now, you really do start to hate it
But it is nice to be away from the majority of the public in a life I did not choose
Occupied, red dial turned, out come a pair of girls mostly half drunk, always together as a two
That is probably why it gets me down, a daily occurrence,
it affects us all,
These,
Disabled bog blues
JJB
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
Knife brandished and dusted
on dirt rubber grout grown
stuck between concrete
slabs in parking lot, stabs
the oak bark and climbing
with hand hold knots and
claw bent cramp
of forearm strain
What if the lake came to life
revealed secrets from the last
era, before manmade channels
and bridges truss and bending
On approach grip loosens
uncovered, looks echo in time
loud, unsure when muffled voices
make it past headphones
while walking through clouds
of regrettable memory
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
if i were to bread my tongue
with rocoto and cornmeal
and twist to reach the andean soil
my tastebuds long for so many nights
out of the year
olfaction and your left-sinus blockage
would stay cradled
in broken-baguette bread-crust baskets,
a trebuchet's missile,
naïve to the horn of the world,
and brittled to a carcinogenic crisp
caped in my earthenblood geysers
en el humo, en la tierra del fuego
in(fierno)
i recount by the tally marks of black felt
resorted to in the puddling of spilt tea,
(like broken china, you never missed
a beat to correct potential error
and my memory),
i count them to remember
the epiphanies standing over a red faucet
a gallon water jug, whistling snail-trickle,
wishing away the cracks in the grout
or the grout itself,
wishing away the cracks in the pottery
or porcelain facade of which
you're so fond and grace with singing cuticles
the fingers of a pianist
lacking the wherewithal
and solid brick gall
to answer the ivory's summons
i am not a piece of clay,
i respond poorly to your sculpture of my surface,
covered in oxides and baked in
hell's oven, your mountain fire
scathes me as it does cedar resin
and i am similarly embittered,
pooling sap & draining smoke
in the embers and dead charcoal
of your embrace
avant le corps, sans l'âme
sans le corps, avant l'âme
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
Specious speculative salacious spectral season
Transmogrify trapezium traverse torsion treason
Erotica errantry erectile endogenic emblazon
Ghastly gnashy grotesque gristly garrison
Larcenous lecherous lascivious latent lesson
Entelechy ethology exsistentialize extant epsilons
Spurious spry squabble subtle specialization
Transient transitive tour de force teleportation
Encephala enunciate endeavor executant emulation
Garish gaudy gambit glitch granulation
Lurid livid liaison limpid laceration
Extravaganza expletives expeditious equilibration emendation
Sly stodgy surreptitious spatiotemporal solicitor
Taciturn tactile transcendent tertiary torpor
Euphoria eminent equivocal exserted emancipator
Garrulous gustatory gung ** gestational gesticulator
Lyricism lilt liberation lambaste levitator
Escutcheon exergonic epaulet exodus extrapolator
Starkness staunch spectacle stolid stultification
Telepathy tantamount tractive tellurian transmutation
Exonerate euthenics exegesis entourage eradication
Groaty gnarly gruesome gristly gastrulation
Licentious lewd lacunar laconic limitation
Extemporaneous exigency embark embargo extradition
Slinky slick sultry stoical snout
Transubstantiate torturous temerarious tumultuous tout
Eucharist extortion enmity epithet eke out
Gross grit groin grove grout
Lentic leister lotic lothario levity lout
Execrating eventuation evocative evitable excerpt bout
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
There's something inexplicable
about the way
they make you feel
nothing.
Happiness is fleeting
but
you are your own mistake
you keep repeating.
one of these nights
might turn out right
if you keep your mouth shut
like the door you're always
finding yourself behind
with your back against the wood,
muscles tensing
as you knew they would.
Nose bleeding-
when is the last time you ate?
It took you an hour to get ready but
no one can see all your hard work
in the shade.
"baby, you look great"
is all you wanted to grace you ears
but you've got too much on your plate
and there are only couples here.
They will pay you no mind
and you will begin to feel
you might have been left behind.
you pretend you aren't hungry
because it seems more grungy.
cigarettes will stain your teeth
and smoke will spin circles at your feet
as you sway alone;
always hanging in the wings
you're looking for another drink
another triple shot
and you sink deeper into
the half-assed hope
that this will be a night
you forgot.
Just more meaningless crumbs
of these evening hours
accumulating into an unusable mass
of dried out nights
exaggerate another fight
you had with your mind-
what will you do when they call you out
for being lower than the grout
in the bathroom
baby face like you just came out of the womb
your knife is duller than
your conversation topic
you're a fake-
From a mile away can you be spotted.
Drained of inspiration
plagued by perpetual consternation
what will you sample next
on your way to a falsified elation.
Spending weeks away dragon chasing-
How long will you be on mental vacation?
They're growing impatient.
C.e.M. 12.21.2014
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
Brick-dust tumbles
with last reach for light,
choked leaves gasping for air.
Cigarette ends and spiders
come and go
like traffic on the road.
Violet against terracotta,
a Maasai on an African plain -
burning thirst.
Rain drips along
upright canals of grout
slurped by parched roots.
Crinkled buds
like babies’ hands,
drenched, unfold.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
I'm a hung dumpster! Alcohol flask bucket
Sacked into the trash can of grocery store monopoly the end of all produce and of production
Collapse
Coronary killer vegetables
Rotting in the stomach
Begotten sons of Aspergers eating asparagus
the symptoms of collectivism and social surplus. colliding and,
The end of evolve.
The cities you see are the collecting cells pooling to cesspit trudging on tracheing breath.
Collapsing lungs with no space left
The cornucopia is over. It fell down with its mortar and grout lain to crust into soil. Traipsed through toil torture and insolence.
The Crimea fell next comes bombs next comes Obamba. Capitulation with motor skills
Feigning docility and anti-hostility mortar round bills.
Mountains from Jerusalem cricket ant hills
I am your friend though we owe the same blood
I am no different yet I give nothing up
I claim all the land just as you do
You take and you take and I lose and lose
Corruption and solitude
Killing people only gets you less friends
We are mirror yet very mad at it
.
My time will be up only but once.
This is the one time I'm not scared of death
But the glimmer in her eyes laughs me through it.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
Into his heart she wished to peer
To glimpse a shade of his crippling fear.
These feelings she claimed as just a murmur to sense
Of deep loss, unknown sadness, and loneliness.
From where he came baggage weighed him down
To where she found him toiling around.
Listing and rolling on an open sea
A broken man he was, so sure was she.
A place to pile pity, sadness, and sorrow high
To fill a hole in her own mind's eye.
A project, a task, a falcon with clipped wing;
Perfect - for a broken man can only be a summer fling.
A date written in sand to bring the curtain down
Leaves nothing to invest; nothing to lose in a waning town.
Help she will not, 'tis not her place
For when summer sets - off to another race.
What does one do when magnificent marble cracks to its core?
Take on the mantle of repair as their chivalrous chore?
For when one finds a thing more broken than they
Pious self-righteousness illuminates their way.
Always the better a thing that is broken
For it leaves that which lies beneath always unknown.
Talents and treasures in a life yet to live
Are the things that a broken man has yet to give.
For broken is mended through time and reflection
And then is when she might make a connection.
Yet a connect is impossible when hubris abounds
For painted already is a picture that confounds.
Perception turns to reality as mud turns to stone;
A broken man always is as she chooses to be shone.
Just as a broken plate, glass, or jar are easily discarded
A broken man is one who is also easily departed.
As fracture turns to crack and crack turns to decay
That which is broken knows only one of two ways.
To stay broken forever discarded as dust
Or to mend, heal, and repair the broken man must.
As the swift needle of time sews shut his ripped heart
The broken man realizes in this play he still has a part.
Realization that his role does not intertwine with her
Sets the broken man looking for what can only be a cure.
With grout, cement, and epoxy he sets to piece himself together
The broken man works diligently to fill in each fissure.
And as his new form takes shape he can confidently say
A broken man is not forever - only a detour off life's highway.
Lost in that summer was opportunity for more.
Voices and laughter fading with no encore.
A sadness swells in the throat behind the tongue
A song left to sing, but no song is sung.
The broken man mended whole once again,
He'll always look fondly where whence he has been.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 1:36 PM UTC
Nestled in a pencil case
And snuggled up in fluff
There snoozed a tiny pirate man
Of legendary stuff
He'd spied the hidden secrets
And trod the haunted shore
Blu-tack Beard the buccaneer
Scourge of the open floor
He stole a shoe-box galleon
And sailed the carpet blue
With pencil mast and paper sails
And crayons as his crew
They forayed on the crooked tiles
And crested every ridge
Blu-tack Beard the scallywag
The raider of the fridge
When moored up in the kitchen
With all his crew around
The captain showed to one and all
A treasure map he'd found
It bore a chart of distant parts
And quite a course it plot
It pointed to the bathroom lands
And tip-ex marked the spot
They crammed the hold with cornflakes
To feed them on their trip
They pulled hard on the piece of string
And weighed the paperclip
The crew they dragged their boat aloft
On neatly woven hairs
Blu-tack Beard the privateer
Surmounter of the stairs
They heaved their vessel restlessly
Atop the final brow
The crayon pirates caught their breath
And leaned against her bow
Then scaled tiny ladders
And each took to their post
Blu-tack Beard was at the helm
And watched the foreign coast
Through countless minutes voyaging
There loomed the bathroom door
They slacked the sail and went below
And each took to an oar
They pulled a mighty rhythm
Till their waxy arms were numb
And Blu-tack Beard the plunderer
Was beater of the drum
But though they pried in every nook
And each last inch of grout
They skirted round the skirting board
They tapped each silver spout
Illusive was their bounty
And they grew ever the crueller
They took their skipper angrily
And made him walk the ruler
He landed glum and ruefully
Amid the ***** socks
He heard the merry spiteful sound
Of laughing, taunting mocks
And saw the sight of mutiny
With waxen little smiles
Blu-tack Beard the cast-away
Alone among the tiles
He commandeered a washing cloth
And weaved himself a rope
He scaled the dreaded washstand
And stole a bar of soap
He carved himself a coracle
And set his sights on home
Blu-tack Beard the wanderer
Awash amid the foam
He slithered down the stairwell
And landed with a plan
For warmer climes and restfulness
A cocktail and a tan
And so he met his final port
Right then did he retire
Blu-tack Beard the pensioner
Of the warm spot near the fire
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
I was once a castaway
Of an unforgiving sea
I made a castle in the sand
To ease the pain in me
I made the ramparts ten feet tall
The walls were four feet thick
I filled the moat with lots of sharks
I built it brick by brick
I walked the walls most every day
No rescuer about
But I did not want folks to come in
I wished to keep them out!
The sand was cast in hate you see
The mortar my foe's blood
I repaired the walls quite often 'coz
My inner tears would flood
Within the walls, a prisoner,
My anger was my meat
My only water my own tears
They washed about my feet
Finally the water rose,
From weeping, o'r my head
Their waves erroded at the walls
And the SEA was fed!
Whilst the walls were quickly shrinking
A tide, like floods, came in!
All the sharks went out to sea,
My destiny was grim!
I made a fine, tall castle, yes,
Of sand & shells & grout
To shelter me within? Oh no!
To keep my loved ones OUT!
And others unforgiven.
And the ones I hated.
And other prejudices, yes,
That went on unabated...
And so I found a Mighty Rock
Upon which I stood.
I finally found life's meaning, *YES!
I finally understood!*
Forgiveness? A DECISION.
To put pride on the shelf.
And freeing up your fellow man
You become FREE YOURSELF.
Though for years, I drank my tears,
My thirst was never slaked.
And hatred's fused & melted sand
Does not a DIAMOND MAKE.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/3/2017
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
Your words
Would burst up through
The grikes and clints
*A sweet green grout
That took root
Under the gray slab*
And each word
A grass moth
Gathering sugar
From the Milkwort
For the cold days
To come.
You were always
Kind to me
In this river of life
With its currents
And hidden undertows
*And the things
That scared me into
Threading.*
I was no Otter
I never learned
The playful art
Of splashing
Through the sunny
Moments
While the clouds
Gathered like sisters
But you always
Got me moving.
Using words
Like steps
Filling my page
With courage.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
i come home crying
tears slither down my cheeks
i am simply ugly
for my nose is too big, horribly wide and contorted
my eyes are too small, beads of obsidian on my pale face
and my chapped lips are thin like crushed scribbled paper
my forehead is too big, i could write all of this down on it if i wanted to
why must i seek validation from those who will never respect me, even in my purest form
but my purity is not good enough
society gazes upon me with it's large luminous eyes
i am sorry that my hair is not straight enough
or i am flat
and when i look in the mirror my reflection cries, its hands reaching out to me through the fractured glass
yet why must i weep
beauty is in everything,
in the smoldering fire which dimly lights my cold room, sending marmalade sparks across the floor,
in the grimey walls, grout growing in the cracks and spray paint slowly crackling off,
in the failed paintings, where the splotches of cobalt and splashed of marigold are too thick,
in the cheap foundation i slather across my face,
in the maths equations my brain cannot contemplate,
and even in me,
there is beauty
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 6:23 PM UTC
Metal contraption, I dutifully climb into you each day as the sun rises
and drive your clunky frame through the hills of a crowded campus
to face the questions and stares of the kindhearted and heartless.
I prefer you in short increments and, on weekdays only please
but I’m strapped into your metal ways at almost all times
and jostle along with each bump and crack in the sidewalk.
I hold tight to your rubber arms as we travel down the steep hills
and plow you through old man winters blinding white ways
for long stretches, in between short, fitful summers
I’m not pretending that I never curse you, because I do,
for sticking in gravel, grass and grout, breaking down
every Monday, or your front wheel falling off again
and yet you carry me faithfully to and from school and home
where I jump to the floor and embrace freedom and movement
until I climb again from bed and into mobility and its adventurous ways.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
I tried to make pasta salad for dinner
but my "healthy" pasta was spoiled.
The only little critters known to man that are able to microscopically sneak in to prepackaged wheat have won again.
So I settled.
I figured I'd make up for my starchy negativity by using "veganaise",
but,
of course,
it tumbled out of the fridge that day in my absence
And shattered.
....So I settled.
Cleaning the kitchen behind my
half-satisfying
yet
I- ate-too-much-of it anyway
meal shattered my glass across the tile,
Persistent tiny shards
just jutting from the grout
like my bruised confidence after trying to clean my soul
of the filth that holds me hostage.
As of today I've gone without car insurance for a month
I've been absent from school
because my attendance is hard-wired to my lack of a
functioning.....wallet.
I got caught in the rain this evening
wondering how long I've got before defeat
catches me by more than a single strand hair,
drowning me in a thunderstorm of
uncontrollable emotion,
pattering and piercing my consciousness so hard
that when I finally got indoors,
I approached my filth with open arms of surrender--
soaked,
sitting,
And settled.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
My father uprooted the linoleum tile
after purchasing the house and noticing carpenter ants.
The owners of the house before had laid down
their best pine colored flooring in the kitchen
back in 1959.
I would toddle in and out of the doorway
playing with the grout spacers,
and reaching for sourdough in the pantry.
All while stepping tiny pink sandals
around the dead ants.
I wanted to help my father, but was too afraid
to go near the oven.
The oven, whose
exhaust fan would snarl
like an animal of the night.
Incandescent, where they found Sylvia Plath.
Stained with oil
like a forgotten Jackson *******
Foreboding
of it’s adjacent countertop
where eventually would lay
divorce papers.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
cherry sweet smoke
drifting slow circles
barely masks the scent of... burned coffee? or is it mold?
it really brings out the apathetic atmosphere
of this windowless waiting room.
dimly lit and dingy
a single bare bulb clinging to life
...and failing -
f l i c k e r s w i t h t h e r a p i d p u l s e o f a h e a r t g i v i n g o u t.
while peeling Mint Green paint adds a sense of despair
("*it smells definitely like **** in here*")
the grout needs a good scrub to remove the flaking brown stains
reminiscent of dried blood and chew spit
This. is. where. My dreams languish
with bloodshot eyes
with cramped backs
awkward and uncomfortable
queued up to to die in some forgotten room
located down that rather unpleasant looking hallway
filed away for a rainy day that will never come ~
one dead dream is a tragedy
a thousand dead dreams are just statistic
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
I've always been nervous
not loud enough to say how I really
feel about this or that. OCD about strange
things like sugar packets and cups on the table
and gradients of tea. I could stand up for other
people but never for me. Always been quiet about
the things that matter and the things tattooed on
my heart like that bird on your arm. The things that
speak to me in the middle of the night like knocks on a
door, Knock, Knock. Wake up at three am because God
is yelling at me, but I can't tell any of YOU that because
of the bitterness locked in your chest and there's bitterness
locked in mine. For all this anxiety that I feel up in front of
this crowd, You all make me want to not say things out loud
Because as much as any one of you say you accept all things
you have never once accepted me. And I'm slapping pavement
with bare hands in the middle of the night, red callouses from
holding on too tight, begging for a way in when I'm only ever
gonna be left out because you've water-hosed me from your bathroom
tile like old chunks of grout. I've always been too nervous to say how
I really feel, because my God scares people away.
So here I am too afraid to look off this piece of paper because my voice has never been
above a whisper, and I'm too afraid to see any of you up close and personal,
a shake that no public speaking class could ever fix, because these tremors
are more like heart quakes, and all your demons are hitting my st-stutter
buttons, who ever said you weren't terrifying was a freaking liar
you
are.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
if she drops that cookie,
i get dibs on the crumb,
she's not that silly,
certainly not that dumb,
come come cahrumb, come come cahrumb,
shh, no more droning,
lets just wait n see,
i can't take it, it's too much,
like honey to bee,
drop it for me, drop it for me,
come come cahrumb, come come cahrumb,
drop it for me, drop it for me,
ha, its her last bite,
to your precious crumb say goodnight,
but wait, a little spec has taken flight,
and with all my might!! -
- gulp, gasp, horror, despair,
he was just too big...
if only i had hair!!! i would pull it out...!!
Rover, you are most certainly a horrid grout.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
Cold cement roads
And sidewalks
Hold the first, dry snow
Like grout
Between warm patches
Of lawn,
Speckled with Autumn's
Last offerings.
The neighbourhood
Reminds me to re-floor
My kitchen
In green-speckled tiles.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
i sat in the back
and watched you crack yourself in two on a well-lit stage
like an egg in a skillet
the sound was comforting
and there beneath the bell of cascading light
you writhed
and fried
and your secrets splattered on to the backsplash
like words upon a page
half-hearted lower-case fossilized in the tile grout
i gathered up the crumbs
with an anxious stomach
and a wet tounge
oh
how i lapped it up
let it soak in
and stew in my belly
until the steam swelled
and was forced to be expelled
the feast i've with-held so long
it's the heart song of the kitchen timer
signaling my turn in the frying pan
my time to climb up into the spotlight
and squirm through my own confession
i made every sound from scratch
just for you
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
Cold bathroom tiles
press against my face
nausea, regret, shame, guilt
I lie in a pool of thoughts,
not blood
because it's not liquid
but invisible words that pour
out of my veins
and form puddles of paragraphs
growing on the floor
Around my wrists and up my arms
I've transcribed my pain in ink
but it smudges now against
uneven grout
The vocabulary of my anxiety
I've tried so hard to conceal
flows freely
My biggest fear:
that someone will find me
drowning in subconscious
only to decide that
I'm not worth saving.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:36 PM UTC
Philadelphia warlords slip sideways in a cantankerous bed of grout.
The mind denies what the body acknowledges
in its treacherous games of hope and wait.
Quickened footsteps beat mercilessly on the pavement in a forward-backward pattern
that helps no one and speaks to shadows,
yet sacred bloodlust and cramping desire
provide an outlet for the city lying at his feet.
Only a fool speaks softly in a time of war.
Rebellious minds harbor fugitives in the explosive hour of the darkening sun
Allowing wandering eyes and covered whispers
towards holy crosses, ***** on a distant lawn.
Dark faces and shortened noses appear at twilight to provide refuge
from the "war goin' on outside"
taking our own
and beating them senseless with shoe-polished silverware
and books on secret societies.
Yet aside from the divine and acknowledged kinship between us
lie two drunken, disorderly dreamers
with false hope of vows and six-digit salaries
buried beneath violent shouting over fragile egos.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC
Make one big push
Away from the side of the pool
I can feel the difference
Between tile and grout
Can you?
Guards at the gate
Tell a story of abuse and hate
Cry a whole salty sea
For my memory
Sliced, sautéed sick
I am no magic trick
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 5:42 PM UTC