Time flows in my veins.
Like a fine wine touching my lips.
The womanhood becomes me.
The growing of my hips.
I'm conversing in linguistic bullshit.
With domesticated humans always transparent in their bliss.
I wonder if I screamed suddenly.
It would mean existence.
Within this capsulated emotion.
Sanity coincides with my fists.
I'll break through that wall of boredom.
I spot you gesturing to meet.
We meet on the other side of this room.
We as wallflowers in the dark side of the bloom.
YOU ARE READING
Salad Days
PoetrySad poems from sad and angry times. Written from a juvenile time (14 years old) to older. That's what you get when you leave a teen to ponder reality. A pen hits reality harder than high school survival. Original Art from Vivianne Rheaume
