There is happy woven on a sweater
Veiling a chest, blue, with disgust;
Only if the euphoria hid in my cold hair.
Pathetic poetry and shaking hands are good metaphors,
Easy words and difficult paraphrase; charcoal white,
A bruised, battered soul; all fit so snugly together.
Walk away from winds and they have arms.
They put you back to the pedestal you moved on from.
Incomplete sentences, complete battles and imagery
Smoke you like kisses of stranger boys.
No home, despite the concrete you call
So such helplessness often smears adulteration
On your tainted bone walls.
Failing mix tapes, vain lyrics still instigate
Frozen flesh; you aren’t yet numb
So you walk firmly in the long lost war.
-Turquoise
