The walls are made of clothes
Every fiber woven with similar intention
They rebound the sound of creaking of an 80's bed
And absorb the clamor that happens in an empty room
The sweatshirt smells the heat
And the socks feel the sweat
They live on the walls
And watch what goes on
Strife and love are the same in the dark.
Yet
Everyday the clothes are gone,
And every night they return.
YOU ARE READING
Yellow Bathtubs
PoetryThe following is a collection of short poems pertaining to life, my ponderings, and other random thoughts. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them. Also, I'm constantly editing these as my thoughts change, and I would love for a...
