I don't even like to smoke
I never smoke
The psullaminity is to much for me
I should be in bed but instead I run into you
I don't even like to think of you
I never think of you
But I do when I smoke
The nail in your lips is iconography for death
And I don't know which is it
the death of my heart beating erratically or the decay of your lungs
But surely one of those two are certain
I don't even like to write poetry
I never write poetry
What a sissified chthonic little silly middle schooler thing to do
But alas I write on because poetry is life
It gives life to my heart and restitution to your breath
YOU ARE READING
The Penultimate Pleasures
PoetryA collection of poems meant to embody the ongoing struggle of souls seeking shelter in modernity. (Let me know what you think:)
