Looking up from down below,
thinking of high,
and of low,
wondering why,
we never know,
of a down-below glow,
looking down when you fly.
Sure there's a fire,
every now and then,
but smoke rises higher,
sooting up the lens,
caused by liars,
promising change in the end.
Crispness crumpled as a cost,
with air of smog,
and nature tossed,
the future shrouded in a layer o f grog,
forever lost,
in the blind of fog.
YOU ARE READING
CLUCK NO
PoetryA collection of both emotional and humorous poems about growing up and other frustrating parts of life that'll sound alright in your head, but just plain stupid out loud. !!!WARNING!!! This is not a compilation of chicken poems.
