Nails rain down, the floor is whited out.
In quick tears I spit them out
So when I leave I’ll always be there.
I’m not dead, I was just visiting.
I’m still in my friend’s rooms, on the street,
Between isles in grocery stores, in different states.
My little white pieces of DNA stay, I don’t know
Why I tick like this; I’ve always wanted something of mine
YOU ARE READING
Ribbons: A Random Assortment of Poetry
PoetryRibbons, a collection of poetry stemming from days of the author's life. Ribbons details the anxiety, pain, joy, love, hate he felt in each memory. It's kept in chronological order, each piece was placed as it was finished, (with some exceptions) as...
