Soup & Hershey Kisses

When you see me stop writing,
you’ll  know I’m dead.
Like an empty can of soup,
I ‘ve left my head.
I’m racing my clock , feels like I’m not going win,
Gandhi says I’ll be back again.
For now I wanna leave these words,  
To prove I breathed and flew with birds.
Some of my poems float in the gutter,
cigarette butts, spit and mudder.
But even if I only get one like,  
Hershey Kiss will make it right.
My underground friends read my write,
So it does not matter that you’ve taken flight.  
One door closes and another one opened,
This was the best part of becoming broken.