Everett.
Black storm clouds rest atop his head,
Hiding zits and pimples he'll scratch at subconsciously.
His eyebrows are red or blonde, it's always hard to tell,
His eyes green gray–he says they're blue,
But piercing green gems sit baring his soul,
A strong jaw, rounded but he wishes it weren't,
A button-like nose, so he says, but it's pointed at the tip,
And lips he'll gloss with skill,
He sits in all sorts of configurations,
He furrows his brow as he writes,
Sitting on a computer until someone tells him to stop–
Then he'll complain and take a shower, then go to sleep
Unnecessarily worried that he'll never wake up,
And repeat it all again the next day.
YOU ARE READING
Written in Class
PoetryA collection of poems all written for a class. Most of them are related to my mental health, and some of them are pure fantasy. UPDATED WEEKLY
