Some days, there are endless words,
And some days,
I live in contrary of continued strife.
Popular by demand,
Unwilling in wasted, apathetic action.
Broken, and begging,
In parks, and on the outermost edges;
Of the lands where the spirits linger,
Where cadavers lay flat.
At least the fog is a guise some morns’,
Blanketing the lands in false reprise.
Those, asking to hold;
I, needing to be held.
Skin sticky – keeping little inside.
Far too porous – clogged coffee filter existence.
From the pictures of an old-age days.
To the pathetic anger of high-school dreams;
Laughing at the fishing-line-thin teenage certainty,
Of all that was never to be,
In all the places that were never to be.
Some dead-end cul-de-sac,
From what one used to witness in the haze,
That clouded those prickly, sharp-edged days.