On Sunday mornings
I wish I could still smell the bacon cooking.
Through twisted branches;
my mother singing a melancholy tune.
I wish my lips weren't swollen from this
poisonous tension.
These poisonous lies.
Lies underneath the surface.
Words not worth mentioning.
Sometimes I wish the world was greater.
That it spun ten times slower
and blinking showered life with
mistaken values.
I don't know why I wish for sometimes.
Why I count the blemishes on cracked hands.
But maybe "sometimes" will create caves.
Caves of smoke in which I can smile without combusting.
Maybe just maybe
I'll smile again.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholy Thorns
PoetryPoetry is an outlet Millions of words devised into emotions It means thousands of things And simultaneously nothing at all. Someone once told me "the older the eyes, the heavier the burden." For those that feel lost in this world........ - I ho...
