yet another poem

Crackling Pages

A coarse breeze scrapes into my heaving chest
I force my dry lungs to expand and contract
For 8 turns of the smallest plastic hands
I bolt the lids open on these old eyes

I break these cracking lips open and bare
My teeth to make a shield to fend off questions
Leave the page white, don’t use your ink on me
I want to be left out of history

In deep wrinkles of my crooked gray brain
I am real. I am good. I am alive.


About fathomlessregression

I am a musician, writer, painter, brother, husband, and father. I have more questions about life than I do answers, and spend the majority of my time exploring the infinite number of possibilities that exist. This is accomplished through my art, music, writing, and most of all through conversation. View all posts by fathomlessregression

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