I write poems, and if I lived by a beach I would take long walks on it. Preferably at midnight in a non sketchy area.
My sense of self are
Fast food fries waning
And waxing inside the microwave.
Thick silence is my head
Banging against the imaginary wall;
True beauty are invisible bruises blooming
Where no lips have ever touched romantically.
It’s not pure or even chaste, just pathetic.
A raven croaked and I
Screamed and ran away
Not that it matters
Because most things scare me anyways;
From the corner of my eye I swore I saw an imp
But it was just a crumpled up shirt that shrieked
What on earth do you have to be scared of, you little shit.