You're asking me if I believe
in magic, and I'm
sitting here with my
beer sweating beside me,
while the clock ticks next
to the cockroach crawling
on the yellowed wallpaper.
Magic, you say, exists
in the hearts of children
and disappears with bills
and missed connections, the
landlord knocking, the stale
smell of last night's choices.
Yet here I am, broken
and still breathing, gambling
my soul on the blank
page, finding something pure
in the chaos, the mess
of butts and bottles. Truth
is, magic's not roses or
rabbits; it's survival's scrappy
dogfight, the grit behind.
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Comments1
There are a lot of good lines in thes poem. " the stale smell of last night's choices." Very nicely written.
Thanks Soren, always appreciate your feedback
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