Scraps

Thu, 12/15/2016 - 18:17 -- pdossey

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

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