Bone Thugs N Harmony and Blackstreet albums tucked into my backpack; chessboard styled skate rolling me into the valley. Midnights in the Winter stand still. Are you there, illuminated by the orange hue of a sole streetlight at the bottom of the hill? Yes, setting up your stereo.
In waiting for my turn to speak, it has occurred to me that there are those without a voice.
I sometimes crave a solitary grave, a secluded cave, or the belly of Jonah's fish.
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Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: July 1st, 2024 00:16
- Comment from author about the poem: Pass times and fabricated memories
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 8
Offline)
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