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unworn shirts, unadmired art.

Not enough glare here to save us,
Sick of this rotation despair,
My lady’s setting the standard,
Which makes her: just standard?

Weary yellow dried-up lungs,
Nights spend wishing for cries,
You used to write letters as I left,
Now I don’t bother waiting.

With an asphalt growl I tear away,
A desire to be called home,
Hating your sides and perfect hair,
Fucking resent eats my stomach.

Tired of being alone all the time,
And not quite being special,
The sun sets on my darling’s day,
The moon will be full tonight.

Channeled daydreamer’s sky is grey,
Summer repeats a tragic day,
Melodramatic calls extend,
Punch sand dunes till I bleed.

To say I love you still isn’t a lie,
But it burns my wings to fly now,
Shirts I will not wear,
And art I wont admire.
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Submitted on May 01, 2011

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Akira Dawn Claim this poet

I just thought it would be interesting to get a little feedback on what I write. It is often quite abstract and truly not great (this is not my self-deprecation shining through), but I would really love to improve.I am inspired by the works of Mark Twain in particular, he is amongst the wisest men ever to have lived. more…

All Akira Dawn poems | Akira Dawn Books

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    "unworn shirts, unadmired art." Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 31 Jul 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/89985/unworn-shirts,-unadmired-art.>.

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