I fucking hate Fridays.
The 1950s man fills the hot living room,
On summer evenings with garbage.
My parents are racoons, rats and roaches,
Eating it up like manna.
I fucking hate Friday evenings.
-~*~-
This poem makes very little sense without the context me and my siblings have. Even then, they might get confused. I just felt really angry writing this poem, I needed to vent about how horrible it is to be forced to listen to things you don't believe at all and realise your parents kind of suck as people despite proclaiming to be better than most.
YOU ARE READING
New World on Fire
PuisiPoetry is not really a new world for me, considering I've been analysing poems since I was eleven years old in an academic setting. Now, I want to use the skills and the life experiences to write poetry and share it with the world. It's an ever grow...
