i've got a bad flavor on the tip of my tounge,
it tastes something like the roof of my mouth,
combined with the taste of stale ginger ale,
to spontaneously combust into the smoke i'm
exhaling.

i located the tip of the needle,
cutting through the roof of the
next floor down, combined with the ceiling
spontaneously destroying the ground that i've
been feeling.

and maybe i thread this needle a little too well,
this fibre is cut like jagged pieces that will
never fit. stand up, you'll just fall down.
yeah, stand up, taste the insence, destroy
the threadbare shirtsleeve leadcoat protecting you

from

the

sun,

and breathe out the smoke of the fire.
who's on fire? not you, you're a smoldering pile of ashes.

11/13/2003

Author's Note: you've all got to stop highlighting my bad poems! thank you, anyway. but honestly. this is just a train wreck of imagery that doesn't mean anything.still, thank you for the POTD honor.

Posted on 11/14/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams