I almost feel like wasting a breath and saying hi.
almost.
logic tells me it would be a waste of time
I'd be giving you all the power
power of the situation
power over me
I'm not used to leisure or being busy
now this woman wishes our bodies weren't introduced
in this crystal clear loudness appears the truth
you have plenty of skeletons in your closet
and zero consequences
you don't care to even utter one syllable or even two
I'm offended and you don't even exist anymore
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
