We are the same.
We share the same filth.
Itchy feet dancing over unswept floors,pulling hair searching for the stars.
We are of what? You and I
Nothing but dust and un-even eyes
Enough secrets to fill a root cellar, we could barely shut the door,a house above built on lies.
We sit alone, never to touch a broom
We sit alone together in filth.
YOU ARE READING
Ghosts in my yard
PoetryThis book is dedicated to relationships, human and substance,it's all the same. Pain will leave enough scar tissue for a suit of armor but love, it is out there.
