I wrote many poems today,
They remain as a strip of nirvana
The phone rings violently
The persona is a nauseous vermin
I wrote many pains for tomorrow
They weigh a ton,
And they break the third dimension
This world is very small and people only think with picth black baskets with bloody skies
You could ask me what I wrote yesterday, but you could swindle and lie-asif you cared
We’ll where am I going with this?
Oh yeah, I saw through my ringer’s future that I wrote poems for the orphans 100 years ago,
They wilted at my words like starving artists,like tulips
Just as I do as nobody’s daughter
The angel days have gone now,
As I remember all I gods I’ve had,the mother in laws with whisking talent and kind words,
yet still the orphan I am.