Short Tacky Poems

Tacky

It becomes like a pine smell.
Maybe jugs of orange juice shimmer.
Why fireflies don’t have lungs.
Yet they still harmonize something we can’t see.
I like the wallpaper growing in my head.
Surreal climbing age.
I graduated from nothingness and croaked out a sore sound.
That scholarship all those years ago?
Feels tacky.