scorchdady

my smile is not like sunshine, it is moonlight competing with street light on nights so hot fans struggle to satisfy buzzing to and fro continously to the harmony of a hundred tiny insects dancing near porchlights their humid breaths on wet sticky skin folded apon itself where limbs meet plastic and conversations drift, effortless clouds and equally insubstantial of good times, bad times and just...times, from moist lips pray for a breeze

I am a tree shining golden under the orange glow of a street lamp with words that float like pyrite in endless rivers of verbatim cause no matter how much of me you gather it will still be worth... nothing. kinda like how this poem is worth nothing how it will change nothing but rather lie there an exuberant display of colorful imagery and verbal plumage as you ask yourself "why doesn't it rhyme?" Cause i didn't have the fucking time to make a synthesis of syntax for your audio delight to grant this poem some wings and watch it take flight like a delicate poetic bird. So instead i'm stuck with this poetic turkey and i'm not