The pangs first tickle
like a suppressed sneeze.
Then it ruptures, tumbles and falls,
saturating
like a piano falling down a staircase
They've not allowed us to learn to deal with our anger,
a hot potato, we throw up and up and up
eventually our palms are red with blisters
burned by our own vexations
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment