My brain is a window,
Broken by a baseball.
My throat;
Like a claustrophobic man-
Locked in an elevator.
My pallet tastes of nothing.
With eyes unfocused
I walk and talk through chapped lips
And pale complexion.
My illness torments me
From rise to set
Although-
-it's not a big deal.
Just the common cold I guess.
YOU ARE READING
Landscapes (no. 15)
PoetryIn the year of 2016, I was fifteen years old. In that same year, many things had changed. With over 90 poems, that pivotal year will be forever immortalized. -artwork by BUMO-
