I'm sorry, sorry the winds of change.
Blackness of this white tunnel.
A laugh on the ground they say it sounds.
This shadow of drifting months and change
is the wrap of my bad days lunch, this hunch.
Chisel come get me
fingernail come slit me.
I'm a strand that can stay the burn on a cold pan.
My stand slapped by these rims
of cold flowers
of your face.
I try to dress, look and do everything to fit in, but want to be me and should be...