century old chuck taylors
once washed in contaminated white rain
but long since doused in cigarette burns and rainy sundays
until charcoal clouds is what crayon color
i think of first at the sight of them
but i like them
with an ounce more character than her
rubbed raw scribbles on the toes
of old song lyrics
from the self distressed band on her T-shirt
on its month long protest of the laundromat
shoes prophetic in a silent sense
with hopeless cries seeping out the tears at the sides
screaming for something more than
dried streaks of "glam black"
from a drugstore down the street
under cherry colored streak filled eyes,
strangers to sleep
they sob in the exhales
found in the aching arches of damp sock covered feet
during steps to and fro midnight walks with no destinations
because how cliche could they be
withering away like corpses
while still fully alive
yet dissipating at an extreme mortal rate
dying and for no reason
every scuff mark identical
to the other pairs
on the other feet
on the other streets
in the other pretty alright but "unbearable" towns
in anywhere, USA
for no life worth living
is on the feet of another cliche wannabe
A/N: two fucking months, im so fucking proud of you. no matter what. you did it. two fucking months. you made it to 30. you made it past 30.
