Wash my calloused fingers with brown liquor. Don't speak in past tense. These stories carry knives, start meadow fires. Mountains pull at the sky's sleeves. Burning rain lines our glassy foreheads. Don't read the futures scribed on street lamps. Feel the letters with your inked eyelashes, attraction tattooed to your lips. Your fingertips are numbing, confident past reasoning.
YOU ARE READING
I Don't Have a Brain
PoesíaThis is a collection of the original poems I've composed from early 2017 onward. I've had fun experimenting with surrealism and hope to inspire others!
