Saturday, January 4, 2025

Bad Poetry: Tempest

 


All it takes is one more scream,


and there goes the hairbrush,


the toaster, the broom


snapped across my knee


like Bo Jackson


splintering a baseball bat


in half.


The dismal daylight,


The constant confines,


The time of year.


I am not who I thought I would be,


and though my love


is like a steel cable drawn taut,


I can’t help but rage against


my circumstances of being.


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