You hold tight,Grasping til death.Yet it gets away. You blame it.Or you blame the world.Or you blame yourself. But it returns.One way or another.You learn from it. And then you hold tightly again. A August Thorn NJ 17 years old
Poetry By August Thorn Trippin' Down the Interstate, Stuffed in an SUV, A perfect suburban one. You shake your knees. Mom tells you to stop shaking.
Poetry By August Thorn Snooze I got nothing. But this. It’s 1 AM. But the mind’s at work. Ideas come and go. Sleep sweeps away all of that.
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