When you called me, I couldn't listen
the signal between your phone and
mine gave me mixed feelings of cajole
and being pierced; like when I was
young, feeding thin steal through skin-
watch it dangle there,
a fingertip motif- to be apart
of something.
But no one understood then.
They said Art was for fags, so I
drew a forest in the snow, it's
cold breath weening rain clouds,
and mix precipitation.
So you can understand now, why
I don't listen the first time, or the
second.
because of the fools, with no Art,
and their pallid eyes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment