A Pre-Renaissance Complaint Letter

i am sick of writing letters. 
torn at the brim, 
the envelope seal seared my tastebuds.
i write to characters and 
cry for help , i whisper to figments of my
boundless imagination
my poems direct a single audience 
with my limiting knowledge .

we leap and break, 
throwing rocks at those who do not
understand us. 
Our audiences.

vocal chords, 
torn at the brim .
hemless blouses and black coffee stain our scripts.
creators are Outcasts.
One day they will listen. 

 
c

crisscross

NY

17 years old

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