don't tell us
to sit at tables
and feed our hearts
to your unsettled, needle-like soul
after leaving the front door open
unnecessarily
welcoming in those godawful lot
of dirty wretches
you goofily fraternize with
what a shame
chances after chances came
unshowingly
with open palms yet,
it's those sick bastards you stubbornly decide
to seek for asylum
-a.
YOU ARE READING
littlemisscloud writes
PoetryMy collection of original poetry writings where I'd write way past my bedtime.
