…looks like closed blinds, cranked a/c, laying on the ground and not moving.
…sounds like scores of cars honking loudly trying to get home.
…feels like someone forgot to close the oven after taking out a pie.
…tastes like a diet that starts tomorrow.
…smells like garbage on the sun.
So I’m on some cough medicine from being sick so long, but I found this terrible poem that this psychotic boy wrote me like 5 years ago on my computer and now I’m passing it on to you like a disease:
the velvety night sky has nothing
compared to your skin
the fallen leaves can’t
match your ruby lips
like a powerful ancient god
you control your surroundings
and make the winds talk
the winds talk through you
from the east and west and north and south
ever-moving winds escape the wicked glares of piercing eyes
escape the stares!
the stares of all times
and your paranoia floats and deflates
in the serenity of the garden state
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.