This room's air is filled
With the sounds of the house:
The air frier working;
My mother burping;
My own ramant typing;
My father's knuckles cracking;
The crickets chirping;
My dog yawning.
The room's air is filled
With the smells of the house:
Dinner cooking;
Awfully spoiled milk;
My own sweat from marching band;
My other dog's wet scent.
The room itself is filled
With the things of the house:
Salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table;
Edna, the dog, adjusting her old and fragile body;
My sibling watching TikTok on their phone;
My mother doing schoolwork on her computer;
The inconsistently lit lights.
The room's air is filled
With the tastes of nothing.
I myself and bombarded
By the sensations of myself:
My shirt rubbing on my skin at I type;
My hair rubbing on my chin and I breathe;
My teeth biting gently at my cheek;
My bladder trying desparately to leak;
My shoes squeezing gently at my feet.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry By Me! (Morgan, he/him)
ПоэзияThese are poems that I write. My pen name is Morgan, so call me that! Also, I use he/they pronouns and love to write. Please, if you find any you particularly like, let me know in the comments! I plan to publish some of this in a book, just need to...
