old is gold, and he is sure of that. records and banana splits melt into sex and self consciousness, and i wonder where i lost my damned lungs. the eighties were full of beach boys, but protests and blood as well(on the walls, ignorance, and red signs). living the american dream is something fragile and cursed, a thought that lingers at the back of our brains as we pull up to a gas station with liquor sliding down put throats. cherry sweet and petite blondes–what about box braids and black hair? gold is also old, something ejected by red giants that are too tired of existing. in a way, i can relate.
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so i won't be publishing anything next week because of my exams(watch me publish like eight chapters). please pray for me
YOU ARE READING
paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
