When we were seventeen and smoking shitty weed,
Always asked the time to stop and tell us answers.
We were safe from aliens and monsters.
You stopped breathing; Hey, I got those answers.
Everything is painted white and if it’s not it’s tainted.
Could I hold a fucking needle to this vein?
How much pain and how much pain to take,
But I swear I found the fucking answers.
White, yellow, blue, or anything between those,
I know the why, but I can not answer where.
I can never answer where; you never answer why,
But I swear to God you never will from this otherside.
Soul’s are vented to accumulate this filth of ours,
And long as I’m trapped suffocating, mind as well,
What? I don’t know, but I want to find a void and,
Run away to where the silent moments talk.
I want shallow breath, and barely beating hearts,
Where things that fall to parts come to whole,
And things that made us whole, all wither away,
But it’s never sad. No. It’s somehow copacetic.
YOU ARE READING
Shattered Amour Propre
PoetryThis is a collection of some of the poems from my book, Shattered Amour Propre. There are a variety of formats made out of raw emotion. Come get stabbed in the heart, collect pollen from the flowers for a smile, and cry about the tragedies that have...
