tattoos on Dead trees in mournful ink patterns.
Leaves splattered in titles.
Dreaded scripts of mourned youthful boasts drown a chorus of crowds at deep Dawn.
You asked me to lay Voice and I did.
I sketched a few pages of aching doubt,
Cold to the touch you once called me?
Well then, ignorance is always a fucking performance.
I dipped my quill in the resentment aching within Thoughts,
Scribbling curses in milky song and slimy clichés to catch the ear of you,
I had to type four pages, then forget to send the damned thing.
I chose not to bloody remember.
Inspired by Audre Lorde, Sylvia Plath and Langston Hughes, the poets’ lens is the urban and modern take on floating emotions, carved thoughts and the youthful experience of budding adulthood.