my kitchen counter. . . . after four hours of me making one little mess, leaving it, grabbing another stool and making a nother mess right next to the last one.
the mess I made.
More by Inkpaw
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The Boxes In The Corner
Looming over your shoulders
Each stack higher than its former
Every thought and every scrap
Of an idea too scared to ponder
Every moment that hurt
Each minute that lingered longer
-
Inadequacy
How do I push the words out
From behind my taffy tongue
Thick with salty tears
And full of grubby thumb
I’m a child
Pretending that I’m numb
To escape the overwhelming feelings -
Paper Frogs
Why
When feet fall soft but quick
Does the hallway extend
And the hot breath of whoever’s behind me feel hotter
Why do I stay pressed to the wall
Like a stubborn gruby sticker
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