i like to forget how to live in the summer, let my body
drench itself in its melancholy, thriving on
loneliness in the herd. i feel surrounded
by lions wearing the masks of lambs, i know
my mind doesn't know how to
recognize a smile, still can't make the words
slither out of painted happiness like wavecurrents.
how long does it take to see authenticity
in the soundwaves of a person's voice,
why do they still smile when they see
my right hand scream-shaking in its pocket?
YOU ARE READING
the heart is just an organ
Poetrypoems and thoughts and drabbles that'll never get published anywhere else
