Thursday 2 A.M.


My words walk around this space
hitting walls, leaping stalls
trying to exist.
They appear on list after list of
things that won't get done.
They lay upon tons of intentions,
dissensions and re-inventions,
on would-haves, should-haves
and disappearing could-haves.
These words of mine just find no
place to go
in this slow dream of quarantine.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem