LarryMullen's POPAngel
Blue Crack Distributor
OK, guys...I'm making myself vulnerable here, so be kind. This poem is called "Seven Hours":
time flies
when you don't feel the ache
it burns
like a candle in slow motion
dripping onto a cement floor
hardening and staying still
when you are alone
and the pain in your head
makes you feel as if your body
has declared war
deepening
weakening the core
of your stability
making the way you felt two weeks ago
seem like an eternal, awful dream
forever in your head, but out of your grasp
eek...there, I did it.
time flies
when you don't feel the ache
it burns
like a candle in slow motion
dripping onto a cement floor
hardening and staying still
when you are alone
and the pain in your head
makes you feel as if your body
has declared war
deepening
weakening the core
of your stability
making the way you felt two weeks ago
seem like an eternal, awful dream
forever in your head, but out of your grasp
eek...there, I did it.