With my fathers armstrong I been given this special ability of this special sauce.
"You start by cranking up the tomatoes smahsed against your chest. You lay it *cough* on the table-"
But Father-
"Don't say a word. Bottle down this medicine your doctor said you don't like because you can't stay in one pace."
I smell depressed, hand on my chest, the pasta must be done- ah!
My chest won't heat up any longer for this special sauce.
The tomato's grew some wings. They told me they don't "want to stay."
I wish I can know what they feel.
My heart stopped, my father just had sex with the meaningless sex shaped tomato.
"I don't wanna stay."
I shot myself into the kitchen like a bullet flying past my head and into the next head in its way.
"All these years I waited for the concentrated pace that takes place making this pasta."
I'm so good at sex, but when my hand is on my chest, my heart skips a beat cause of the lack of connection with it.
"Don't say a word." With an empty bottle, I awaken on a sidewalk dressed as a homeless.
"Please Support My Salsa, Salsa!"
I woke up to the other face. The side of the earth's face you don't interact with.
The stars carry my only reliable hope for my salsa.
"These wings will- *cough cough* my father, where are you?"
This sun will burn my sense, no wonder It's always common.
An intellectual waking up to your face.
I'm straight, I just pray I'm in your shoes.
YOU ARE READING
Thursday
PoetryThe depths of my mind and dialogue of it all. My thoughts. My fakeness. My lies. My confessions. My Raw mental conversations. My weakness. My complicated life. The nonsense that creeps up in my head when I'm thinking. There is no need to understan...
