Brain Chemical And Stuff
Turns rusty as a hopeless, charred, lost waiting.
But no withering, camouflaged, stinging feelings.
I have joyless, expressive, harmless recipes.
And nothing else in the works, not even a crunchy taco.
Turns out that things need stuff.
Or brain chemicals.
Neurons, charred, scabbed over.
Turns out there’s no wavering when it comes to spilled stuff.
The hospital churns out lost, rusty, scrunched up people.
Not even a minced onion left in them.
Just brain chemicals.
Wavering butterflies, invisible, and scentless.
Turns out that I need a bed to sleep in.
But someone scattered ashes all over it.
Turns out?
There’s a spell that would undo the minced meat feeling.
Charred, scabbed over again.
Brain chemicals.
And harmless recipes.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
