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Dead Head

Not feeling great today.

Bones are grinding force
against my blood pulse.
My brain
a bundled bag of synoptic sacs
or are they nerves
neurons
and neuroses?

Feels more like a floating fog,
creeping red down angered walls.
Tickling.

Mop up the juice
of my crushed horticulture.
Prune the hairs on the dolls head.
She does not cry, only looks,
glassy eyes lead to frozen smile
and broken plastic skin.
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Submitted on May 11, 2016

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Caroline Brown Claim this poet

I think I'm a storyteller. I'm often conflicted as to which medium to use, but with certain things poetry cannot be beaten. I am also a sculptor, and a scriptwriter.My poetry is an evolving medium so I really appreciate all of your feedback. Like most, I am learning and trying to home the craft everyday, whilst not forgetting to express myself in a unique and original way.Thank you! more…

All Caroline Brown poems | Caroline Brown Books

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