Stutter

I don't know, I don't know if I should trust poetry or poems anymore. Including my mutterings and me.

Priceless

The price one has to pay for being nice to a loser/a spiteful person.

Running Away

From streets of minds
to isles of light;
swings of the hand,
to the smoke of cigarettes;
eyes of anger,
to a sunken face;
nobody seems to be
a mirror of themselves.
Wrought by Buoyant forces,
we'll make Archimedes proud.

***
For Eliot prophesied that there never will be a time, after all.

***
For Isabella prays the cold, harsh days are but nightmares she can wake up from.

***
For this is just one life and nothing really matters at the end of the day. Who the heck selflessly cares for what happens to the dead, anyway?

Bastard.