I pulled out a fistful of pines
and gargled some green air,
finding ways to pass the time
as nothing changed around me.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

bad poem

you've left me
scrawled and
scribbled
like a bad poem:
the long, awful
kind
that you skip over
large chunks of
trying
to get to
the end,
where again
you feel
nothing,
but that
was because
you didn't read
the whole thing.

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