they are talking, taking me somewhere
fictionbooks, lost of all their consciousness
third grade, forgotten
real world, forgotten
once i learned how to curve letters into one another,
to tune the brain into a new channel,
white noise like the sound of old, dry roses
but i lose my focus
some day the man who created me
will draw the house in which
i will raise my children,
just like God.
Your father's an architect right?
ReplyDeleteWhat do you want to become?
The poem conveys an emotion, and an expectation. Nice
thanks. yes, he's an architect but i would like to go into the publishing world and to write.
ReplyDeletehope to see a bestseller from you then, soon.
ReplyDelete