I am subhuman.
Brittle, cracking and
somehow still irking by
with no trail left behind.
The prickly feeling of hair
standing on edge eludes
me. Not even able to cringe.
I am like a moth kicking up dust
and drying myself out.
With every pointless flap
the same...this unbreakable habit.
Motion wasted.
*I'm, sorry for all the melancholy attitude. I promise that my next poem will be an uplifting one.
No comments:
Post a Comment