The clock ticking by -
No.
(( Who has manual clocks these days? ))
The clock changing digits -
and we
lying here in the chaotic messes of our own dreams
and using our lives as pillows
(because what else can it do beside sucking up our tears?)
bleeding black and blue and bruised
and hiding behind the smirks of long lost infatuations
with cheesy smiles and worried eyes
and mouths rotting with lies
// little kids
with messed up days
and exhausted fights
and whispers of sleepy good-nights //
People with poetic eyes
and poetic smiles
and poetic lives
Making the rest of us
feel a gaping bullet hole where you should have been.
where she should've been,
where he should've been.
Existing without existentialism.
**********
Okay this one is a sad one , forgive me
***********
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
