The feeling
Stultified
laying beneath the tin cans and trash
the smell of it all rectifies nothing.
Rising up slowly
feeling the cool night air chill the aching bones
rubbing the slime of your hair
you hop up to your feet
look around and try, try, try
to be copasetic. Run away,
run away,
run away.
Away from this place.
👁 3💬 0
Something wrong with this poem?
Replies are closed for this poem.
Your Poem's Voice
See what makes your poem unique — its voice, energy, themes, and the literary traditions it draws from.
Comments (0)
No comments yet. Be the first to share your thoughts.
Log in to leave a comment.