The humid air against my slowly awakening skin makes every cell want to scream.
The messy faces line up one by one, arranging themselves with those who are alike.
Upstairs, music plays as her voice drones on, and we all listen with tired ears
To the sounds slipping through the buggy window.
Trees outside groan in the early hours, clogging my senses with their tears.
Sneezes fill the atmosphere and I try not to breathe,
because smelling the fresh air is a death sentence
And the medicine doesn't work.
Clouds hang high in the air, dangling above those who couldn't make it trough, sleeping in the fields
As sleepless children wander tiredly in the glove compartment.
We speak happily of memories and sand
Knowing the time is soon.
Writing away the thoughts on any scrap we can find
Because stale incense sparks nostalgic inspiration, and the desire to be able to see past my swollen eyes.
Sitting around is hardly relaxing, but to read offers a distraction to the voices speaking coolly at one another.
Although sleepy, we are able to think as though we are happy.
The guilt in the flowers and lack of appreciation are temporarily out of mind.
But when we say good bye and I am left to be thrashed about by twisting paths,
I always wish I could go back.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry and All Things Alike
Poetrypoetry, short stories and a collection of everything else. these are the ongoing thoughts that run through my brain day by day, and a measure of life and what I know of it. everything on here is original work by me.
