Your upper hand beats their lower hands to roll the die
Crooked men lounge on red playing cards
Their cancerous smoke hushes out the children
Big hands rolls six sick sixes on the dice
I hope I’ve got some sisters who out last me
They gonna tell our story
Little men in big suits were on the telly
Static white n’ black threads his white lies so clearly
Problematic white noise hushs our issues
Everything’s still more than just scenes on T.V.
Stills hang on a black screened shutdowned T.V.
like stirring the ceiling
We’re gonna clear up this anxiety
Tell me, when our world’s falling
Will she be your gravity?
Feeling as right as raindrops
Riding on top of this mentality
Breaking the glass ceiling
with her bomb stiletto class.
Art by Lea Shvarts
a sooted finger graces lucid waters,
a foot too quick plunges past haters
Three quick gasps and thus
He goes fast right under
Silent screams rippled through landlines
slicker and sweeter, as if collected with
mystic morphine and hypnotic heroin
So soon an overdose rings home
Yesterday, she recalls her eyes gazing out the classroom Towards the vast land of lights and mass of people Afloat, going here and there, she stands atop the roof Spinning doubt, still figuring it out
Falling on O’ weary A train travels Nodding off hums to a sea of mumble jumbles. She still peak at the pains and blemished face afraid Gazing into a selfie screen behind curtains of hair and cease
Mocking those daily fought wars within dark under eye crescents I pray she’ll blossom into childish laughter set in mighty skies For that was all there really was; wonder. Be far Gone low some thoughts. To her young everythings.
Wonderful, if each of their owns matter.
Patches of gentle light spilled on waves to pointless chatter.