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I could lumber down hallways
and break my legs
on stairwells
reaching for a brown door,
the grain tinted purple and green.
   I take tallies
   about how many knocks
   it takes (today it was 9).

We have eaten each other’s
salvia and cupped each other’s
cheeks,
and now I can’t
listen to the last
30 seconds of
a song,
afraid to hear
any type of ending.
©2007-2009 ~tiltinghead
:icontiltinghead:

Author's Comments

i'm getting sick of poetry

Comments


love 0 0 joy 0 0 wow 0 0 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconisthefox:
I get sick of it, too. But it won't stop my head from thinking in it.

I love this poem. :heart:

--
[:earth:ars:pencil:longa,:heart:vita:skullbones:brevis:rose:]
:iconisthefox:
You're very welcome.

--
[:earth:ars:pencil:longa,:heart:vita:skullbones:brevis:rose:]
:iconupgrade-aftrlife:
i like this poem a lot until towards the ending which i think is esoteric.

--
I'll get you so pregnant your middle name will explode.
:iconupgrade-aftrlife:
nevermind

--
I'll get you so pregnant your middle name will explode.
:icontzatziki:
yesyes.. actually the first piece of poetry I faved from you (and believe me, I read a lot of them), because it's something I just thought about recently.. especially the ending.

--
:fuzzydemon: fear is your only god!
:icontiltinghead:
nevermind as in you don't think the ending is esoteric anymore?

Details

January 18, 2007
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