I watched the burning wood
listening to guitar riffs and acid trips
taking the cigarette from your chapped lips
on the ash tray.
connected the dots of stars,
made pretty pictures of fire balls.
if I stare long enough
I can see the playground through these
vaseline eyes.
you were washing your hair
as I wrote poems out of clichés.
eventually we doze into slumber
and I dreamt
about your curls
and over sized sweatshirt.
you holding a cup of coffee
and smelling of polo cologne.
reciting poetry out of your
sultry mouth
and blood stained lips
smelling of smoke;
and your punker aesthetic.
and my soul grew happy
as our hearts grow loud.
c.d.
YOU ARE READING
1:46 a.m.
PoetryA collection of poems, most written at extremely late, or should I say extremely early, times of the day, when my mind can truly bleed its thoughts onto paper.
