deepundergroundpoetry.com
On Any Given Sunday
On
any given
Sunday,
I'll write a poem
that is not a poem;
more like a love letter
to all the summers I've wasted;
an apology to all the moments
I've hesitated to live in.
It turns into a private sermon
preached from an empty pulpit;
a soliloquy of solitude written by
an open window, framing Springtime
and Armageddon like van Gogh.
It will be riddled with
anxiety and sweetness;
a broken syrupy pancake
too close to touching
scrambled eggs sitting
on a square plate
at a 90 degree angle.
It will become the
ghost of lips haunting
the nape of my neck;
a graveyard full of zombie
goosebumps searching for
follicles that no
longer exist.
any given
Sunday,
I'll write a poem
that is not a poem;
more like a love letter
to all the summers I've wasted;
an apology to all the moments
I've hesitated to live in.
It turns into a private sermon
preached from an empty pulpit;
a soliloquy of solitude written by
an open window, framing Springtime
and Armageddon like van Gogh.
It will be riddled with
anxiety and sweetness;
a broken syrupy pancake
too close to touching
scrambled eggs sitting
on a square plate
at a 90 degree angle.
It will become the
ghost of lips haunting
the nape of my neck;
a graveyard full of zombie
goosebumps searching for
follicles that no
longer exist.
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