deepundergroundpoetry.com

Scraps

Here I sit thinking it over

a sickness of days
this pen made poem;
Angeline’s cheap perfume
staining cushions on a couch

truth be told it’s all remnants
as I gift what is left of me
to your reading eyes, open
to receive this brittle being

gather my scraps in garbage bags,
throw my bones into the river
as her crash washes me clean
and I am gone, gone

gone.
24601
Written by 24601 (John Brady)
Published
Author's Note
30/30
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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