PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

And I find that thirteen of

my vertebrae are wafting through doorways

Undecided of the sinister differences between black and white.

I sip my turkish delight.

Sybolism is in the windowsill. The last petal of a

last leaf

And up front and center with the mirror, I put

my face on

The foundation, to hide deprivation

The mascara, to say hey, I'm up here



The soul is an interstate exit for the wounded

And there's more then one these days

So buy me a beer and let's get transatlanctic



Break smiles with the sharp teeth behind them

You'll learn that about me.

It's a downright consistency



Learn that obsession is a martyr, that sticks around

kind of like a smudge (a memory) that you can't block out

and you notice it everytime you go to sit down

Yeah

But

oh well