the frustration is a broken bottle in the dirt
no use to me
the broken glass is small and sharp and liquid is wasting into the ground
the wind is cold and my match will make no spark
this moment is bitter
colour has washed away with every drop of weak piss
every spew of pointless words that come out of my mouth
a message flaps stupidly through the air
it's blue and bitter and unimaginative
like the moment
i read the sounds through eyes that have become ears
through boredom of sights
the sounds form a song and the lyrics tell the truth
i listen as the chill in the wind turns a sickly warm
your tests are finalized
the results are in
the virus grows and is true
and as you feel it's green ember glow in your belly
the frustration melts into the ground to form a bowl in the earth
and the piss you guide is rich and ferments on contact
gaze down to see your reflection in the steaming mirror
a sepia image
but real enough to force your hand on the broken glass
paint your face in the poison blood
your reflection is now anything but dull
and the smoke from your struck match
shifts through the warm air.
1 comment:
this one was a free flowing writing.
i was thinking about someone in a playground, depressed and paranoid,
then recieving the news that they were HIV positive or something like that.
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