Poetry Blog by The Black Bile (Panic)

Are We Home?
Today I Woke-Up, 
Scared Seeping Out The Ears.
Can’t I Shut Up?
Hushed Sounds Of Tragic, 
Time’s Silent Casket.

Are We Old?
Got My Paper Bag, Today,
To Catch The Static
Running On My Chest Like Fire Ants.
We Could Fuck It Up On Purpose.
Even Never Dying Gets Too Old.

Are We Home?
He’s Making Room
While Creeping Around.
 

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