xWynnex
Cool Cool.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand conversations.
And context.
And characters.
The dialogue could be subtle,
But they learned to be subtle too.
The subtle contour in their cheeks
To pull attention from under eye circles.
Black eyes bruised by sleepless nights.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand people.
And places.
And things.
Those nouns are a life blood,
And their cuts bleed memories.
Blood is washed off by subtlety again.
The stains are light,
But they see the stains still.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand lists.
And dates.
And appointments.
They had an appointment for their pills.
Their pills help them sleep through
Bleeding memories that subtely remind them
They do not own their slumber.
They merely rent it for the daily price
Of an ambien or a joint.
Whichever is more affordable at that moment.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand feelings.
When they feel too much,
It becomes their nightmares.
The ambien is out, and the weed is illegal.
The blood is still in their veins for now,
But all it takes is a good razor.
There is nothing subtle about stealing
A knife from the kitchen,
But you can always wash it off with a hot shower
And leave it to dry in the open.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand numbness.
The smoke break from their feelings
Is the length of a power nap.
Both aren’t enough to erase
A week’s worth of sleepless nights,
But it’s all they get, and if they’re sleeping,
They won’t reach for knives or joints.
They’ll reach for a blanket instead,
And maybe wrap up in something they understand a little better.
But they understand conversations.
And context.
And characters.
The dialogue could be subtle,
But they learned to be subtle too.
The subtle contour in their cheeks
To pull attention from under eye circles.
Black eyes bruised by sleepless nights.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand people.
And places.
And things.
Those nouns are a life blood,
And their cuts bleed memories.
Blood is washed off by subtlety again.
The stains are light,
But they see the stains still.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand lists.
And dates.
And appointments.
They had an appointment for their pills.
Their pills help them sleep through
Bleeding memories that subtely remind them
They do not own their slumber.
They merely rent it for the daily price
Of an ambien or a joint.
Whichever is more affordable at that moment.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand feelings.
When they feel too much,
It becomes their nightmares.
The ambien is out, and the weed is illegal.
The blood is still in their veins for now,
But all it takes is a good razor.
There is nothing subtle about stealing
A knife from the kitchen,
But you can always wash it off with a hot shower
And leave it to dry in the open.
They don’t understand poetry,
But they understand numbness.
The smoke break from their feelings
Is the length of a power nap.
Both aren’t enough to erase
A week’s worth of sleepless nights,
But it’s all they get, and if they’re sleeping,
They won’t reach for knives or joints.
They’ll reach for a blanket instead,
And maybe wrap up in something they understand a little better.