PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I spit out blood in the sink
I am going to die
and I know this

I ask the moon, when it
is orange
to give me fever
I want to hallucinate on
the grass by
the field where I flew the red kite with
my father
And my mother, in our yard,
sweeping the boardwalk.

what a rabid night,
to smoke your last signal
to the beautiful world
and
try to forget your place within it