89-cent matchboxes are never
coy in jacket pockets,
bare feet on cold asphalt,
flints and sparks,
hot breath meets cold air,
pyromaniacal dreams!
-----
Hundreds of conversations
all at once,
an echoing chasm of
college questions.
If I've said it once,
I've said it
a hundred times.
Happy Thanksgiving.
-----
The feeling of not
being able to breathe,
wanting to just
stand up and scream.
Speak to me.
Speak to us.
The sound of voice is all I now hold onto.
Breath by breath
by breath.
-----
This is the end.
Blankly stated.
Now I don't have
to wrack my brain,
trying to think of good
poetry.
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