"obnoxiously" poems
I think the scent of bug spray on my palms will now forever remind me of you and the late night (early morning) we spent sitting in your car, drawing awfully unskillful portraits on the back of each other’s hands in
dim light and 3 a.m. stillness. (I wonder if you could tell that doodling on your skin was just an excuse to touch you.) I wanted so badly to let my fingers find yours
as we laid back in our seats
and peeked out the rolled down
windows at the infinite stars scattered above us in the
early August night sky. I told you I wouldn’t kiss you,
because I know my heart and
how relentlessly it would
replay how your lips felt on mine, and how it would ache knowing
you couldn’t be mine,
so I let you kiss my cheek instead,
and the half a moment that I felt
your unshaven face brush mine in the middle of the street at five in the morning feels like a fake memory. When you looked at me, I wanted to hide, because I was too afraid to read what words might’ve been written in your eyes, but I felt so content listening to the
deep tone of your voice
mix with the obnoxiously loud crickets singing in the trees
surrounding us. I could’ve sat there with you till the stars disappeared and the sun took their place, but you walked me back home, and you left in the dark, and now I’m sitting in my bed thinking about how the hours between 2 and 5 a.m. have never felt so full.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
One friend is deaf but manages to hear twice as much as I do,
while simultaneously embedding himself in games and genius.
One friend is kind and smart, always complimenting and supporting others before herself.
One friend is quiet, and she is both easily embarrassed
and easily embarrassing.
One friend is the previous friend's brother,
and crushes on me while never saying enough.
One friend is very intelligent and geeky,
and detests wearing skirts even more than I.
One friend is really in your face and dramatic,
pushing the boundaries on everything, but noone hates him.
One friend is the unfortunate brother of a great annoyance, but is her polar opposite.
One friend has hair of constantly changing color;
blue, green, pink, black, yellow, brown,
but always the same hoodie no matter her hair choice.
One friend has a thousand faux laughs,
but guards his true one from the light.
One friend has a mocking joke for everything,
and you can't help but laugh with her.
One friend has a treasured hat and while sketching everyone, everything, and everywhere, lays my insecurities to rest as I do the same for him, both of us in need of some love
and understanding from a kindred spirit.
One friend has an obsession with a band and a book and a show, and an overbubbling enthusiasm for everything in her life.
One friend has a meme for everything,
and a perverse thought for every situation he encounters.
One friend is half blind but she manages to see twice
as much as me and explains everything beautifully.
One friend is crazy and gets away with the exclamation of abraham lincoln in any awkward silence because its just his nature.
One friend is as a mouse, but a genius in every aspect
and hides behind her glasses.
One friend is obnoxiously loud and more of a dork than the gangster his hoodie implies so everyone simply laughs.
One friend smiles like a duck in the cutest way,
and wears her square glasses in the best way.
One friend longs for a love that is loyal
and hide s behind his temperment
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:58 PM UTC
On the land molded by footsteps and ruled by obnoxiously bleached clowns,
Visited by swarms of neighborhood guttersnipes and the opulent from uptown.
Allured by the traditional Irish circus music and the grinding of rusted gears,
To arrive at dawn and to leave only when the night sky is tired of fireworks and flares.
Skittish and gleaming eyes would roll on the floor, struck by daze and lost in wonderment,
At the marvel of giant steel rides and god forsaken and socially foretoken genetic mutants.
The word of a woman with two faces and the boy with a tail would make any catholic priest run.
Amusing the rational ones, alongside the man with elastic skin and the girl with the forked tongue.
The opera lady with outlandish proportions and tumorous lips sings to break a piece of cheap glassware.
Little do people know,that the magician’s red gloves are actually stained with blood of rabbit that disappeared.
Their noses get caught in the medley of fragrances from the exotic perfumes shop,
Blended with the saccharine tang from the stall that sells candy floss and soda pops.
Indulging over the overly priced confectioneries at the stall of the baker with the forbidding grin.
Try it a hundred times,try it a thousand,you’ll never get the fifth one right in the game of rings.
People will come out screaming from the haunted house,only to laugh about it later,
Little do they know,that skeletons that drove them pale and white couldn't get any realer.
They’ll jostle and struggle to make their way through the crowd to various rides and attractions.
Hustling to navigate through the maze the carnival is, encountered by countless illusions.
And once your body wears out and senses give in,that’s when you've truly entered the carnival state of mind.
Your ears stinging ,nose stifled,tongue baffled, eyes exhausted,and your sense of judgment blinded.
That’s when my masked act begins,the most profitable act at the carnival,
Diving into the heart of the crowd,to draw an act of brilliance lasting an ephemeral.
Slithering across the crowd in a different disguise every hour,concealed by stealth.
Sneaking into every nook and corner and slipping my furtive hands into your pockets for a little bit of wealth.
Only to dine with the clowns and the carnival family at the haunted house at the end of the day.
And of course, rabbits for dinner,if the baker may
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
You’re wishing plus wanting
to win the other side
remove your pride,
you untied tidal pool,
the wide subdivide of these paper pages.
Unrelenting numbers
remind you of the next stages,
taking you wildly to Namibia,
surrendering you to Zimbabwe,
the terminal station.
The narration vocalizes the translation of quotations,
your obligation to the violation of the rules, the regulations,
vulgarization of spoken word.
Pretty paintings plaster typecasts,
the pitter-patter of pity’s pretty ******
quickly shifting refurbished velvet sofas.
Overcast symphonies outlast
witty recast stanzas,
scores with notes naturally quote
verses romancing seltzer spines
noticing the negotiation of sore throats.
Oblivion’s oblivious to the people,
obnoxiously obscene with syncopated
saturation of public vital signs.
You’re the vain strain of virus
photocopying yourself within skin,
waste your sin on tattoos trapped on shins
safety pins selecting prints
pinning sets of twins to tanned wrappers
protecting official reports.
The ossuary welcomes records printed on thick paper
suspiciously missing skeleton swords.
Writing stories reversed while tipsy,
quickly preforming risky poetry smog,
sweetly omitting secret words,
trying to spell simply without the proper prologue.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
loud
so genuine it seems fake
temper
cries easily
animal lover
talkative
passionate
overly sweet
accidentally inconsiderate
cant whisper to save my life
non confrontational until angered
giving
creative
hard working
obnoxiously loud and annoying
liberal
avoids messy situations until i HAVE to face them
flamboyantish
scared
loves being feared / having power
hates directly hurting people
anxious
too freaked to apologize
very touchy
hyper
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
the jingle jangle of those things you dangle
from neck stretched thin with shiny things
call me a magpie
call me a baller
a shot caller
a hip hop drama starter
kicks so fresh they came from the produce section
this flash of blood diamond on my wrist
costs more than the home I don’t have
if I hit the switch I could make that *** drop…
got my obnoxiously huge candy painted cans on my head
so I can only hear the ads I want
and these threads reek with so much swag
the sweat, blood, and tears of little brown and yellow people
I couldn’t give a **** about
dropping three hundred on my mall haul
and they have the nerve to ask me for the rent
sounds system off the hook plasma on the wall
more **** than an abandoned lot
more thoughts forgot than cops in krispy kreme
with a water gun and ski mask for when times get hard
me and my friends are going to blow two months salary
on lap dances and blow job fantasies
“Aint that new track dope?”
“Yeah”
“You heard it?”
“Naw, but they were talking about it on world star”
this floatation device is going to be too heavy
and I am going to drown in all of this fly
fresh to death
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
You'd be pretty lucky,
if you caught my eyes
staring back into yours.
I'd like to tell you a good reason,
weave a tale of heartwarming lies,
Alas, there's no story behind my evasive eyes.
I nod when I mean to scream 'yes'
To every whim you have.
I smile when I mean to laugh.
I compliment you with the most beautiful of words,
In my silence, I hope you hear me say.
I was born a misdirecting sign-post,
hoping to lead you the right way.
If you'd know me, I'd like to believe,
You'd fall in love with me.
Indefinitely. Instantly.
But in this infinitesimally small moment
that we share,
In an obnoxiously loud world that we stay,
That little space between us is all it takes
For all that is unsaid to lose its way.
If you'd know me, I'd like to believe,
You'd fall in love with me.
Instantly. Indefinitely.
If you'd give me a while,
You could hear, you could see.
You'd know how hopelessly in love I am,
as inarticulate as my thoughts may be.
But with the years it has learned,
This stupid, hopeless heart of mine.
That it simply does not have the luxury of time.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
Idle moments, sweet talks
Having the best times of my life
Across the far numerous possibilities
Velvety colors
Everything was a beauty
Morning smiles
Egos whispering
Telling what the most important
Thing they could
Have
Ever imagined
Marble-like eyes
Onward towards you
Sighs between regrets
Tales won’t seem to work like they used to be
I’ve always been wondering about
Mystical creatures
Pondering inside my chest
Orbiting like constellations
Running like a pack of wolves
Touching this beating heart
And making my head spin round and round
Notions go shuffle like cards
These were all because of a
Person who happened to have passed by
Earning almost everything kept
Roaring out the most silent of thoughts
Scorching the once chilled soul
Over and over but I promise
Nothing will ever change
I’ve always been
Never would be
Minds on parallel paths
Yours truly
Living like it was the last
I just wanted to say that it was
Fun, fun to have these unruly
Emotions constantly splashing different colors right before my eyes
Brushing like it was part of a bigger canvass
Under this small fancy reality
To you, for you, by you
Never, ever
Once
We would
Have
Expected these to happen
World was my biggest stage
Intrigued, excited
Loving but never was once
Loved back
Shortly after breaks
Often we imagine
Often we wish but
None of mine came true
Lavishly fooling around
Everything was gradually taken for granted
Amidst those smiles was a
Voice yelling
Earning
Mourning, trying to
Ease the pain
I’ve always
Tried to be a puzzle
Wishing for
A
Solver
Focusing on me, and me alone
Until I might as well return the favor
Needless to say
These petty wishes
Have
Always been the reasons why
Nearly the whole scope of my imagination runs by circles and by
Knots
Yelling like mad
Obnoxiously trying to be
Untamed
And
Natural, always in
Denial
Good times never last
Of all things
Of all moments
Dying to say
Billions of sweet memories
Yet the other side was not willing to listen. The
End
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
The music of life, at times, is a raucously *** concert
of ominously monotonous melodies sung sirenically
by voluptuously ugly monsters.
Curvaceous enough to flaunt the fact they’re actually ****
Which makes you feel like an *** but that’s just the way
it was meant to be.
Then the chorus bombs in, and the song starts to get sweeter
since the tune becomes a lot like Bob’s album: Street-Legal.
But as quick as you can nictitate, the ****** you anticipate
flicks away like a spark that was never gonna be lit-to-flame.
And so revert the monsters, their obnoxiously off-key verse,
somehow being, paradoxically, still acceptably heard.
And I almost forgot to mention how horrifyingly awkward
the gawking audience dances! Watching it is honestly
the most awful part of this non-senseness.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
You're pathetic
A cry baby
Never amounting to much
Worthless and useless
A waste of space
Obnoxiously selfish
Self-centered attention *****
You crave pity
And all eyes on you
Just stop whining
Long enough to **** yourself
You don't deserve life
Since you waste it
You're nothing special
Just an accident
Never meant to happen
Sincerely, yourself
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
Her demise shook the world
And left an uprising in its wake.
She was human but the world
Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her
Skin was marred with scars of
The most gruesome kind but
Little do you know, they were
Her battle scars that she took
To the grave. Her body, a
Holy shrine was entered without
An invitation but you are not
Aware that her soul is purer
Than yours will ever be.
Her cache of memories will
Be drenched with flashes of
Hungry stares and lustful eyes
But also warm hugs and gentle
Smiles from her parents.
Something that the
Scrupulous media does not want
To reflect upon. She can’t be
A secret anymore; her caste
Cannot be a hindrance anymore.
She needs a powerful voice
And we must give her one.
As i recount this tale,
I am suddenly this girl. I
Consume her desires. I
Am her soul and spirit. And,
My fingers close in on against
Each other and I take labouring
Breaths. My throat feels like
Huge amounts of sandpaper were
Shoved into it. My eyes are watery
And blood shot and all you do is
Stare. My clothes are shredded
And little rags are my only trustful
Companions on my otherwise
Naked body. A string of wounds
Cover my arms and legs and you
Whisper about how sordid a
Scene this is. You mutter about
Me being a victim but the truth is
I am a warrior who survived an
Intrusion that was not supposed
To happen and yet, you back off
From a growing crowd and wonder
What you’ll have for dinner tonight,
Leaving me there on the ground,
Writhing in more than pain and suffering.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
I think I’m going to
Slow down for awhile
I need to embrace that
I may be mentally mature
But I’m still just a kid
A kid with an unbelievably and
Obnoxiously mature mindset
But a kid nonetheless
So I think I’m going to
Slow down for awhile
God knows that I really
Don’t need to be worrying
About the dramatics
Of the adult lifestyle
And I need to enjoy that fact
While it’s still true
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 9:25 AM UTC
The dawn has rendered me dreamless yet again,
Or at least of the only dream that mattered.
Surrendering myself to my subconscious has never been easy for me,
but dreams were the last place I knew you to exist,
and I would gladly brave all the nightmares that came along with them,
if it meant that I could just hold you again.
Lost- Your name has become synonymous with "Lost."
It breaks my heart every time I hear it,
and yours was a very common name,
but I'll say it all the same,
because I still enjoy the sound.
"Lost" is an unfortunate word, yes, but it implies that there is a possibility of being found.
Alive- They say you are "Alive."
I disagree.
Your meaningless words and vacant stare
scream to me that you are not in there.
Your obnoxiously noisy heart beats blindly,
it knows not of how it teases me and fills me with desire.
Your soul was the sacrifice and your body was the pyre.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
The grey coated ashy sky screams that we should in fact be inside.
But instead I’m rushing across a lawn in black, breaking flats.
With my heart in my chest, and my hands shaking from the rest.
I’m not prepared for what’s to come, for the repentance,
That will be taken, as we lie here hidden away from the sun.
The fluorescent lights are stinging away the outer layers of my eyes.
I can feel my confidence drastically shrinking in size.
All that are in favor stand up, a man in a blue button up calls out
I don’t stand. I’m scared, I don’t want to be the first one to lose
You’re unaware of the magnitude
Of your actions, as you rise.
Thereby sparing me and cursing those that I despise.
I fell in love with your appearance almost instantly.
With the softly curled hair that so gracefully
Rested above your eyes.
I had known you for a matter of minutes
And there it was I was in love.
It was a strange moment in time,
Where your eyes turned around to look into mine.
I felt a connection, immediately, without even a second thought.
Who was this impulsive romantic?
And what had she done with the particularly critical
Normal version of myself? Where had she gone?
My failures have never been so prominent as I’m sitting there
Wasting away in that old uncomfortable creaky plastic chair
I spent the time awaiting my fate,
Dangerously lost in the loose linens of your being
But I assume it’s now about eight
I don’t know exactly what my heart is feeling
I’m absentminded, free. Finally free from the
Troubles and worries of my everyday life.
As my overactive imagination overwhelms the logical side
In a landslide majority vote, I’m lost without a sense of maturity.
And so, I allow myself fall into your eyes, and slightly imperfect smile.
You were almost obnoxiously beautiful, but
With your snide offensive comments, and your homophobic sentiments,
And worse of all your willingness to sacrifice
The shortcomings of others to build yourself up
Was more than a little off-putting, and your arrogance
Was more than a little disgusting
For the image in my mind of us, to ever exist.
Darling, I wanted you to know
That is a future, I will never miss
And I truly hope to never have to see you again after this.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:42 AM UTC
(for my daughter, Mary Ann, soon fourteen)
I was eleven years old when I first had something taken from me. My parents were still married and my two younger brothers had not yet chosen to choose differently which one they’d live with. My dog had not yet been made lame by a falling fat man who’d taken the gift of my father’s strange rage square on the nose. And my older sister had yet to misjudge her jump from a moving train. No, none of these things, whether they happened or not how I’ve remembered, had happened.
I was eleven years old and in love with an old red bike. It had a license plate that obnoxiously read Go Now Mega which I’d scratched at with a fork and so became Gnome. I would fail my whole life to accomplish a thing greater. Before school, I’d walk the bike carefully to the end of our short drive and then seat myself on it and be still. I would often be so perfect in my stillness that I’d forego riding it and just listen for the bus and at the last possible moment walk the bike, still carefully, back into the garage and cringe at the sound the kickstand made when lowered. If ever school didn’t go my way I’d think of the bike, alone, in the garage and be calmed. When I did ride the bike, I did so slowly and deliberately that I could feel my soul get a bit ahead of me. On the best mornings, I would have for company a bed sheet of fog which made me want to fake being asleep on the couch while my mother and father milled back and forth about who would carry me to bed.
The bike had come with the rental house we moved into just shy of my tenth birthday. The house was a three bedroom one floor with one bathroom and what felt like two kitchens. I was too close to my hands and feet to now recall any vision that might tell me how these rooms were mapped though I’ve always held aloft the word blueprint. I should tell you that what I previously called a garage was actually our backyard and that our backyard was really the backyard of those living in the house behind ours. I didn’t want you to know right away who took the bike. Who’ve no imagination.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
I've grown blind to sensation
and deaf to the hums of my walk
its all the same yet again
one great big pile of gray sloshy snow
suspended under an equally flavorless sky
whose clouds pour drips of cool touch onto me
and as they land and stream along the contours and creases of my face
they soak up with my hurt
and that feeling is the only thing that keeps me thinking im still here,
still alive
so please sky, let it rain
let it shower away all of my pain
let it pump my blood to sizzle against the icicles that hang beneath the gutters of my veins
to melt away the current solid stream of red
so i can defrost back into my old self
as steam rises from my now beating heart
revealing gears that rotate freely again once their bolts are no longer consumed in deep frost
the color rushes back into my skin
and the flushed pale face suddenly evolves into crimson cheeks which hold an obnoxiously wide smile
with a voice that speaks loud like a lion with purpose
and sings harmonious with the songs of my youth
...
the day i am resurrected
is the day i will love you like i intend
so tell me, please reveal your secret
where can I melt?
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
White-bodied black bird raven like creatures that sit everywhere and obnoxiously yell to each other from the wilderness we live inside.
Wet birds. Soaking in mod colors affixed to the numbers the looms set in the torn threads of an old tank top named with the characters of Dune.
And in sweetly moving breaths of air the peaks pull through this range of mountains seen from our back deck.
Friends, join us as we balk putting away cardboard boxes as not to put a hinderence on the relationships with our neighbors and instead traverse the moose-trails the tourists stop and crop their lenses at- only to make to Brouhlim's.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
I hate nearly everything about you.
That stupid dimple next to that stupidly gorgeous smile.
Your repulsively silky jet black hair that feels so horribly wonderful between my fingers.
From your obnoxiously beautiful deep complexion to your sickeningly dainty hands, I can't stand any of it.
I hate the way our bodies fit so perfectly together.
That feeling of eternal happiness and comfort when I see you is absolutely revolting.
The way you smell so terribly excellent makes me cringe.
Why do my hands always seem to search for yours, in some grotesque display of love?
But, even though I hate all of these annoyingly beautiful things about you,
The fact that I don't know what you think of me is what I hate the most.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
years ago
when I ****** my boyfriend
I'd sometimes pretend to pay for him.
how much?
I'd say,
so he'd make believe he was turning away,
you can't afford me.
he'd stand there
obnoxiously
and I'd fling wads of money.
six hundred
seven hundred
eight hundred
nine
a grand, baby
a grand and you're mine
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
i lost control today
a fool i am, for you flirt obnoxiously in front of my ******* face
i know you do not love me but i still feel pain knowing i will be replaced and that all i am to you is waste of space
sorry for the inconvenience
- a.h.
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
There's this light, really hollow expanse in my chest
and it fills with electric stars, each blinking rapidly.
I'll wear my jumper, loose bottoms and socks
and I am engulfed by a sharp breeze, fleeing in
through our open back door.
I know that smell. It's cold and fluttering and full
of purpose. And it pats my face as I breath it in.
I think how easy it could be, and would have been,
way in the past to believe in Gods and who prove their
power by rylling up the weather.
Blowing in a storm.
All thunderstorms smell the same, wherever you
are. And they each speak in heavy voices, rattling low.
I suppose it's on you to look inside at your grievances
unpaid to them. But I simply love the change.
The power in the sky that strikes and rumbles,
and the waiting, oh the waiting...
As the clouds openly fuse and grind darker, the smell
of the thunder growing thicker and bounding about.
It's like a miracle how fast it happens, how much
energy it feeds to everything.
Time that was the insect looking at us, we are obnoxiously
slow. Is now us looking at the insect, who is amazingly
fast. Until...
There's a moment when that energy reaches its
capacity, the sky squeezing. And you wait
Dddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd
The rain is unleashed. And sound everywhere explodes!
Cause it's heavy and it's coming fast.
Hopping back to the door, I sit just inside its frame
my face stretching with glee, because everything
around me and inside me feels unimportant,
forgotten, under this display.
Small, sitting in the door way, the wind flicking
sprays of water your way. I count in between
the lashes of lightening
One Mississippi
Two Mississippi
Three Mississippi
Four, imagining the maker of these grizzling
static sparks. The ground, the sky, my heart,
pulsing.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 6:32 PM UTC
You’re not allowed to step into the house.
You’re not allowed to open your mouth too widely,
your ugly teeth bared and gnashing. You aren’t allowed to be that close,
so close your mouth and sip your tea through the window,
where expensive and matching dining chairs circle around a table
set for nothing, for no one,
because you can’t touch that silverware. You can’t wash those plates.
You can’t fit, your neck so long that your head is in the clouds,
your not-quite-bony legs serving as a reminder that your feet are still on the ground.
Can you feel your heart in your throat?
The way that it pulses every time you rest your chin on the roof or
the way it pounds when you’re at the doorway, much too close to this house
that you bought and built and you aren’t allowed inside. Why won’t they let you inside?
Why won’t you let yourself inside?
Invite yourself in; maybe your head will come down from the clouds and
your heart won’t beat quite so obnoxiously loud and you can
smile in a mirror while flashing all your ugly teeth.
You can’t build a house without thinking about how you’ll fit into it:
that’s basic architecture, basic design, basic
everything that you never bothered to learn,
bent on keeping your head so much higher than the ceiling.
Asymmetric, sloping,
like your shoulders and the alignment of your eyes
and your crooked smiles and tied up tongue,
like white lies and broken foundations
and a doorknob that doesn’t work,
doesn’t turn,
won’t let me in
despite the fact that I built this place with my bare hands.
It doesn’t recognize me anymore, a fantasy
so tangled up with reality
that all the nightmares and anxiety ruin even my cloudiest positivity.
I built myself a world and a future
in which I myself am not allowed to enter.
Maybe I should brush up on my knowledge of basic architecture,
because God, I’m horrible at interior design
and mapping things out ahead of time.
I’ve tried just living without but the winter gets chilly and weakens my bones
and it really sets in without the warmth of a home.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
It's not illegal to sprinkle lemon juice
in a healing wound, but it's not recommended.
The clatter of silverware rattles the piercings
of a tattooed barista battling a vexatious morning.
Iced caramel lattes, incarcerated by
serrated coffee beans, sleep alone at night.
A half-empty cup of 2% screams at a
of glass skim milk for acting obnoxiously drunk.
One squirrel scorns another for
stealing its spiked acorns last fall.
A lonely poem twists and turns
through disappointing images of life.
At the end of the road there's a mirror
reflecting an absent feeling of satisfaction.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC