That mind
is a homeheld concentrated by a kind of maintenance called
self love;
where I can slip in and out
unconcerned about plumbing
the color of the curtains
the cacophony of fags by the bedside
the rooms unclogged by
yesterday's rift
or future outcome
be it bad or even worse,
so hospitable when I attempt
to belong
where there's nothing at all except
me
bigger than my material part,
not money, not praise, not status
can give this
feeling
that transcends all the passing beauty
in the world.
Poetry by yoonoos peerbocus
Read 17 times
Written on 2025-10-14 at 02:34
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