White Stuff
Seeing the whiteness of my hands, I weep,
With not guilt,
But joy:
The grains, through a journey of hundreds of years' processes,
To perfect its beauty,
Its toxicity,
The grains of white filter through my fingertips,
Shifting in fine, powdery motions,
Hallucinating.
Seeing the power sifting through me -
That is, when I swallow the pills my friend hands me.
Something wrong with this poem?
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Lizaf Asifan
Hey, I'm seventeen, and many of those years have been spent devouring Italian mint chocolate chip ice-cream. I love Italian mint chocolate-chip ice-cream. You should really know that: that I LOVE ITALIAN MINT CHOCOLATE CHIP ICE-CREAM (okay, I think you get the picture now, huh?).
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