20 January, 2012

A Purpose for Everything




Brown paper napkin,
to you I write my balad.
Too corse for my nose,
but not the sandwich infront of me.
Her greens wet your edges.
Transparent becomes your center.
You're tearing at the fold.
Where else will I place you,
but in the plastic depths of hell?
Why do I write this?
You deserve a proper burial.
Your history now recorded.
I leave you to decompose.

2 comments:

Jeffrey Dean Root said...

This poetry is trash!

Jeffrey Dean Root said...

Especially since I had to go back and fix spelling mistakes