Cold crisp air whisps by,
On its way to cool the world,
It bites through my hands,
Turning them red,
On dark and cool nights like this,
Me and my sister would stand in the quiet night,
Listening to the sounds of the dark,
"The moth likes the air,"
She would joke as she traced her tattoos,
"And the moon likes light,"
But tonight I am alone,
No sister or moth or moon,
Just me and the stars,
I have no ink to trace like she does,
So I cup my hands together,
I wonder what keeps her,
And I dread that I already know,
Sometimes a needle,
Or a pipe,
Are the hardest to resist,
My anger boils my skin,
Sears the air nearby,
I wait another minute,
But by then I know,
I shouldn't waste time,
Waiting for something that won't happen.
YOU ARE READING
Blissful Incompetence
PoetryThis will be my poem dump. All my crappy poems and shitty thoughts all compressed into one place. Aren't you just so lucky to read them? For real though, most of this will be personal-esque poems and writings and most will probably be going over so...
