You're biting down on your kiwi;
You're flexing your HD TV;
All the materialistic things make you free—
From your static cage, more like the shade of a tree.
Either your stomach's got no room for digestion,
Or it hasn't the requirements for being stout.
The only way to find out,
Is to look yourself inside out.
Yes, I'm telling you to see
The crappy state you've made of me.
Hah, is there really not a grey area though?
Are we really going with the flow?
Empty, strange, a little deranged
Tainted, painted into someone else
We're even more sick than when we had a flu.
You're strange, but you're only you...
Or are you?
YOU ARE READING
The Scent of a Wilted Flower
PoesíaThe flower may die, but the air current will always carry its remains: the scent of the wilted flower. ----------------------------------- A series of poems with spontaneously changing feelings and topics. After all, there's not only a singular wilt...
