I feel cold,
so cold.
My poems are starting to grow old.
My words are turning into mold.
If only in my brain,
I could find some gold.
This feeling makes me physically sick
My head really is one mean prick.
Can't find self help, so I'll just cry.
My tear ducts eventually will run dry.
YOU ARE READING
Poems To Make Your Teeth Rattle
PoetryI am mataya moore and this is a random collaboration of things that my go through my brain, turned into poetry.🗡
