I enjoy
rooting through
thrift stores
because I
feel good
in the
flowery shirts
of your
dead uncle.
Bright body over
black pants, black
shoes, black
skin - ironic
enough to hide
the actual
message
unless
you look
too close.
No difference
in eccentric
and ugly
except the
eyes. I
root through
people's
trash
and hope
to find
something worth keeping.
-
NOTE FROM THE OPPOSITE SIDE, LIKELY WRITTEN LATE AT NIGHT WHILE SLEEP DEPRIVED.
I have heavy reservations about being nice to the wrong people, so much so that I lean strongly to the happy alternative of misanthropy. Decently poetic wordplay there, I should write this down.
YOU ARE READING
Poems about fucking.
General FictionOld poems and stories I wrote in college or directly after about a variety of topics. Some mix of dark and funny subjects, might as well read.
