Wednesday.

A melancholy longing settles over the streets & avenues heading east,

One third of tobacco in a pre-lit cigarette no longer satisfies rushing & starved organs,

Everyone crawling by is in search of something today,

Lips dont have the same bitten feel they used to while secrets set souls aflame from the inside out.

 

The fucked up one needs to feel acknowledged again,

The filthy poet feels lost today,

Walking off the edge of the world,

Sporting blue & ivory feet.

 

The looming grey makes every insignificant skyscraper amorphous,

Continuing this vigil routine long into the night,

Yearning for that something,

 

Body in a constant state of shivering,

Trying to shake vivid memories out of habitual thoughts.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My country
Our world

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