Sentences are islands, like Hawaii
where some volcanoes do explode
followed by a period of long drawn out smoke.
Poems are the homes
with narrow staircases and dirty windows
where passerbys can barely see within.
Books are the dreams
realized by the yeilders of the pen
than live in homes-
with narrow staircases and dirty windows-
placed precariously onto islands-
where some volcanoes do explode.
I will be destroyed by my demons destructive needs.
My smile was purchased by my need to feed,
And my hands are being bound by debilitating greed.
I don't deserve this life, nor do I deserve to die.
Yet I'd rather breath for you than for me-
knowing this will be the death of me.
I'm selfish, don't you see?
COMMENTS
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