I like hearty soups, poetry, and trees. I’m 17 also, don’t know if that’s important but I really don’t know what to write here. A lot of my writing is unfinished and messy because I lack motivation and give up half way through.
I like hearty soups, poetry, and trees. I’m 17 also, don’t know if that’s important but I really don’t know what to write here. A lot of my writing is unfinished and messy because I lack motivation and give up half way through.
The Safeway two blocks from my house throws out all of the produce once it turns. A rotten putrid pile created by underpaid college students forms for a week strait, before the city comes to collect their festering waste on Sunday. It’s become a habit of mine to sit out back behind the deteriorating building and watch as the fermented juices of old fruit get splattered across beige chipped paint. ...
Shifted by change
in the direction of the sun.
How rough my skin has become from tempest winds.
In the absence of your constant pour my roots take hold.
The sting and bind cut through velveteen as I push against the worlds stifled sneeze.
I craved apocalypse before I knew of her strained body.
You are gone.
The focus of light infests my drought ridden eyes....