ripping my hair out at the roots
drinking tears and smoking yells
alcohol, bed hair and cigarettes
my ears pick up on the summertime bells
chipped black nail polish
crying at two in the afternoon
spinning aimlessly in the backyard
smoking by the light of a crescent moon
sight getting blurry at the edges
dignified hurriers hurrying more
breezes breezing through the open window
chilling my weary bones to their very core
YOU ARE READING
A Little Thing Called Death
Poezjai won't explain many of these. they are for you to work out and they'll probably mean something different to everyone. (i own these poems) ((FINISHED.))
