There's a feeling I often speak of
One a culmination of many.
It's like fear of the demon under a
Blanket with caricatures of laughter.
It's like a hidden bolt jutting out from
My back like an abomination's spawn.
It's like a bleeding paper cut
Revealing yellow wires under skins of blood.
It's like purple melancholy upon
The sight of a hatching butterfly at dawn.
It's like a mirror that doesn't reflect his
brown eyes in your Cubist masterpiece.
It's like a resounding orchestra
That plays from a Walkman player.
It's like an artwork that remains incomplete.
YOU ARE READING
Ode
PoetryHere's an ode to the night he/she left; here's an ode to the anxiety you feel on a sunny morning and everything was supposed to be fine; here's an ode to the feelings left unexpressed; here's an ode to the words left unsaid, or perhaps what can...
