Like coffee.
Like wind in December
gashing cheeks red.
Raw and disorienting
leaving feelings of depth
of loss and connections
left slightly incomplete.
Salted
with screeching train tracks
and shimmering oil
atop muddy puddles.
Phone calls half completed
and snippets of conversations
radiating distress
like how the sun shouldn't
in September.
Wince worthy sweetness
no serotonin
just the wrong taste of chemical.
Rejected.
Leaving a film to cling
of how it all was supposed to be.
Tedious
and meaningless.
Bitter poems
for a bitter tongue.
YOU ARE READING
We as Humans
PoetryGolden threads from a dirt human. Poetry and philosophy that I write for me and share for you. (Cover art by Gabriel Levesque/@oskadesign)
