vision drags the cracks in rock
hoping it would open up and take it
fire on their shoulders
light on skin
fingers lace the chain link fence
like vines trace trees and stone
yellow converse scuff the concrete
carrying dirt and green
headphones hang from ears
sing them a tune
melancholy taste to a sunny day
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feeling yellow but its orange
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makeshift roses
Poetrythey start to wilt more every day, but i can never stay away i grab the roses and touch the thorns, because pretty things have devil horns (this is just a thought dump. ive written a lot of stuff on my own so i thought id see what everyone else thin...
