Shove
There's nothing like a pressured toot
to get you out of bed.
The moving sheets, the rustled beat;
of flatulance ahead.
That very sign that life goes on
despite the time you have.
Where waiting on the sun to shine
might mean a death through calve.
And hope is an illusion
of a sleep that's pulled you in.
When your luck means live or die
to a death that's judged your sin.
And you wake with expectations
of a world that's going to love
as you move about your business
in the manner yours will shove.
Copyright © Trevor Mcleod | Year Posted 2019
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