Facing the worlds brutality
Standing after the scorn
Donning masks of clarity
So it looks like I’m weathering the storm
But these digs
At my sanity
Have let me see
The need for justice
That cannot be born
sunday poetry
Sunday wordle: Man wears a fedora with a feather, he gets the chicks
Got his fedora on
with it’s ostrich plume
He’s a jaunty chap
He has the pick
From all the chicks
Cuz he’s just chill
And full of tricks
So as they say don’t come knockin’
When that caravan is rockin’
Sunday wordle: Map of the world
Smoking another coffin nail
To ease up your stilted words
Trying to get your message out
Tracing all the lines
Of hurt
Like a map of the world
Orange
Seventy-seven years have passed
And you still interpret the world
In bouquets of orange
Bile
I kiss shame
As the bile rises up
Placing primal urges
Back out of reach
In the hopes I won’t follow
Back to these baser instincts
