Vanishing in hindsight.
I see reflections of what could have been.
I guess I'm only kidding myself.
I came because you had supposed answers.
I left because time had run out.
Running away is a custom to me.
Like words you dare not say.
Like storied you cannot read.
Pretending to love and corresponding exactly to the sex I don't feel.
The lines on the pavements clearly drawn.
These are the boundaries.
You love to be right as rain.
I just love to be gone.
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
