He can feel his spine, that's seldom fun
Their teeth are coarse, her nose has run
And lying on this carpet floor
Has made them question why they bun
But then they realise that there's more
Than what's beyond their house's door
And when her eyes behold the sun
He feels his soul has not grown poor
In fact the alcohol and weed
The acid, ketamine and speed
The seasoning on their small bland lives
Gives them the courage that they need
So when she carves the fours and fives
Hurting herself with rusted knives
His words to which she pays no heed
Are not what helps them to survive.
YOU ARE READING
An Ongoing Anthology of Poetry
PoetryThis is a collection of the poetry that I have written and been writing since around about October 2018. Naturally, not every poem has been of a decent enough standard to be included here, but the ones that have been included are the ones that I lik...
