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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