Listening to the sweet sound
of coming home.
To the salty air
of the East Coast.
The noise of blues playing,
smoke-filled air
whisking, swirling
around the old ancient house
of my childhood.
Wooden boards,
paintings that still color-stain my mind,
the quiet purr of the computer monitor.
"Why are there batteries in his pocket?" says the addicted personality of Ben.
Spongebob episodes constantly playing,
long drives to Seaside boardwalk,
staying out until midnight.
Music blaring,
drunk people accusing each other
of things locked behind
the glass wall of being sober.
Girls with layers of black eyeliner
and unreal toned foundation,
fixing their disguise
in the dirty bathroom mirrors.
A backyard that stretches
to the corners of my earliest memories.
This is the place
where I grew up.
YOU ARE READING
Teacups and Pens
PoetryA collection of poetry from my mind. Take from it what you will.
