deepundergroundpoetry.com

Him

Simple and
chaotic thought process
slows down. It's moving,
as if it's alcohol poured toward cuts on the throat.

Swallow the plug
and know misfortune
ties, close at side,
to the addict's pocket.

Wake black
from bruises
and pale from touches,
stare vacantly, locked the other side of old photographs.

Read a book, The Quiet Life,
or smoke until feeling subsides
and, with the curtains drawn,
hush those endangered thoughts.

Gag on the smell,
stale from sweat and obsession.
Empty passionate senses
into passing days. Another clock, keeping time.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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