It's a start, an end. A place beyond the furrowed bend, where things come together and fall apart. Click. Are we picking up the pieces? No.
By Gadsby O'Dhare5 years ago in Poets
Hell of a time - the clock's acidic, corrosive. Care-away-way seeds that burn in second hand of my right arm. They stick in your teeth. You have to eat them, or they slip through right through the fingers and onto the face.
When you realize you've been lying without meaning to, That you were laying layers of styrofoam you hoped would stand like brick.
