you're so superficial,
like money is real.
your heart's artificial,
like it wants feel.
but isn't "wanting"
just a bitter excuse,
cause its echoes are haunting
and higher strung than a noose.
I want to blow my smoke
into your face,
the cigarette I choke on,
come one, put me in my place.
you know you want to.
-
Author:
𝓱𝓪𝔂𝓵𝓮𝓲𝓰𝓱 (
Offline) - Published: September 27th, 2025 21:34
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
This poem is clever in its wording and rhyme and for that a fave
thank you
You are most welcome
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