mete the kill

In the pen strokes

on white and parchment

journal entries read

some soft stringy dream

glowing off neon kink

as the piont sinks deep

ink drawing up

plans of life pursuits

sad lunatic child small

dreams of big things

of the violet seen

splattered in sunsets

of the black cracks

drawn on dollies called

Cherry and Viola

their sent pungent swet

cigarrettes and honeysuckle

slum love isn't the mirror of some

poem pened in scrapes

pushed by the white and black of living

 

 

Author's Note

i think this can be improved upon but i kinda like it.