Punks

One of quite a few poems I puked out a while ago. I haven't written in so long. I was sort of pleased with this one. I am not a punk.

We were punks,

sleep voices, slick faces,

painted in vices of

long dead poetesses

sleek messy visions, our

passion as clouded,

red as the fences we,

loitered on, purposefully.

Author's Note

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