Fumes
Everything’s a chore.
Like blowing up a balloon with your entire soul.
Maybe it’s toxic mold.
The toxic gases are like soda caps I collected.
Rusty chills.
Breathe in chemicals.
They collect at the bottom of my mind-scape.
That’s just chemistry.
When everything’s a chore.
Growing toxic mold that glitters like nothing else.
Fumes.
Everything’s a chore I’ve already done in a few universes.
There’s more alternate universes.
The one I’m in is just fumes.
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.
