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.

Advertisements

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: