hoesandhoesandhoesandhoesandpoetry

A Poem by A Spleen

Disgustingandboringandpoetry

I can’t think of something worse than being fit for these times, Every third house on a dry, dreary old street is bored of something like something forgotten. And every third house, in the plaster wall undignified boys will carve out a plaster heart. And smile at their mother’s reaction, and if you go outside and leave the lab be sure to hide your poetry, but leave the plaster heart. And if it’s not shameful to dwell on such a thing, I’d rather then that you’d believe it, but then the jokes on you. Who’d believe such a thing to have meaning, Stop moving closer and please stop touching my cheek it is nothing! and why won’t you believe me?

Is it maybe because that even now I feel that all else is digging deeper through the ground, and out of sight and out of touch. Till the bridges bend down and all the trees sigh. At something forgotten, forgotten again.