Root

If a thought remains glued
To the inside of its host for too long
It can become stuck
At first, it teeters
On the tip of a tongue
Longing to descend
Into fresh, warm air
Amongst friends or colleagues
Soon though, it finds itself
Gently pulled back
As new thoughts whizz
Through the narrow window
Of hope. The arable land
Grows quickly
Sprouting offshoots
Stunted deformations
While the roots sink even deeper
Finding veins to infect with
Poisonous abstractions
The host withdraws
Politely declining invitations
To dig at the complex
Formations of tunnels
Scorching each offshoot
Piece by piece

 

 

Advertisements
Root

Biohazard

It’s hard to write poems
Like you’re a voice for
A generation of artists
Suffering in silence
Apathetic about stagnant
Careers in thrift managing
To exist day-to-day
Without ending it.
Glumly, I flick through pages
Of questionable merit
Every job needs a portfolio
Nobody uses filters to cut
Shit included to pad it out
Give it a noticeable weight
A polished golden biohazard
Charged at the industry rate

Biohazard