Chronic Esacapist (aquarium_dreams) wrote in poets_working,
Chronic Esacapist

  • Mood:

Little Ghosts

Speculation Has lead me to believe that you Find me grating I get ignored With such force until peace By piece I slowly disappear Disrobe and once again Disappoint you Even in the safest place All sweetness is cut With poisons Too terrible to name And I’m afraid it won’t be long Until I’ve made the ghosts Twice as real as me I’m running out The door Out of excuses lapping against my toes Sickly warm and reeking orange Like something I shouldn’t have eaten I am fragile fold up origami Paper wings Crushed underneath the blue Photo booth time capsules left behind to attest To my existence Polaroid tombstones with their stoic marble angels Under which dusty bones hold no tongues to tell stories Of children with screaming insecurities Who clutch themselves And weep Calling out from the dark third story windows In those derelict houses With no doors Smoke from the bonfire of broken toys and furniture Is already filling your lungs All that’s left to do is jump
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