Scraps
Scraps of red and green colored the barely rising sun,
mixing the misty blue,
making the sky look like November in July,
The bus rumbles beneath your tired feet
And that's what you are.
Tired.
Tired of fighting a battle you should have already won
tired of rhythms you can never hold, control.
Tired of being here
No one ever hearing your voice,
even when you scream and it's too loud no one listens.
And he reminds of your dad in that way.
A voice that drowns you
opinions louder than himself.
It makes you fucking sick
This poem is about:
My family