deepundergroundpoetry.com

The load, the click

 
 
 
The pen lays
inside my palms
sliding deep in
my pockets
 
there is a fire
burning slowly;
 
deep furnaces
longing to appear
as stains on paper
for another eye  
to glance upon,
 
they come
in crescendos
of car crashes
 
striking down
each lesson
as it goes
 
because life  
isn't a scene  
of moments
filled with
beauty or
nostalgia,
 
this pen  
in my pocket
isn't beautiful
 
every rage
lays inside
a chamber
 
waiting for  
my thumb
to push
down.


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