Men Are But A Distraction
Sitting in a black hole
Surrounded by own warmth
A single light
That may or may not be mine
A distraction
An object
Hundreds of objects
Various different kinds
Which should I choose
Which might I be allowed to have
But no
Nevermind
I am not supposed to touch the flowers
Their scent is intoxicating
And full of bullshit
This poem is about:
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: