At least you found a way to smile again.
That suffering means less on your beautiful skeleton.
Without the need to artificially radiate a glow.
In the ethers of superficiality.
You can rebel.
Yell at the top of your lungs.
Exploding into the eternal.
Redeemed in the drunkenness of existentialism.
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
