Saturday, December 7, 2013

They Wanted Morbid Poetry

"You're so serious, Red," Cathy noted, running her hand over my paper, "I never imagined something so...bright and happy coming from that, but look at it!" I blushed, taking the paper from her. I silently left, and she didn't even turn to wave.

This poem is morbid
Their expectations to mime
They wanted confirmation
This poem has rhyme.

My converses
Propped up on the chair nearby
Are the color of vomit

Three hours stale.

RM

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