// at 11am
poetry comes to life
Mother brought out the slates to clean
and yes, a
Turtle shell hides in hell.
these thoughts become memories, I think.
A boy is friends with two best girls
But can’t seem to become
less lonely in the days to come
Because that boy is me
They— trespassed my heart and burned my brain
Oh, this brain on portable trials
For solitude. numb is in pain
but pain goes away.
Feminist cycles. emo misguided
Rhymes are lame, anyway
where—a sad ballad of pencils moves
towards a toe on the cliff. Slowly laying face down. So
confused even with the help.
I am becoming
at 11am. but who? //