Harsh

Can we get some air in here, Marie?
This pine-scent perfume makes me
Want to puke. These dreary, bleary
Songs depress me. I just want to
Sleep. I'd rather smell a rotting
Corpse and hear a couple fighting
Than continue in this reverie.
Write me shards of shattered glass
And thistle thorns, and nature
As it is: inclined to run amok,
And do not say that all is well.
I'll turn from you. I know that
All is not.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 14 times
Written on 2011-08-27 at 16:30

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