poetry writing
Photocopied trees circle me,
And I feel as though I am being painted,
As though a far away brush has brought us all into existence--Then a child runs too carelessly,
falls on their face,
And the painting is slightly torn.
a thief entered in daylight, breathing air-tight, with vexatious appetite, left the house frozen, but patronisingly rosen, each petal coerced me to an empty room i, a cartographer shrouded in gloom,
found nothing
my youth
had gone.
the girl, cap wonky,
as her teeth, took over me,
together, we danced.
my life is a bed,
sheets disguise affectations,
somedays, i feel home.
