"odoa" poems
it likes to creep up
(get you execution-style)
maybe you're smoking your cigarette
or
maybe you're drifting down the highway
and suddenly
the aimlessness of existence washes down your throat
(sick black tide)
and you must move from the pain,
leave it spinning out behind you
even though the hairs
have been raised
on your skin
(you must keep on)
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC