Gentle Boy
| filed under: Poem, Chris Abraham, Pomes, Poetry, Writing, Creative Writing, Poet, Poems
Wow, heavy
mind plays games with me
such a gentle boy, he seems, but
when his eyes get red, when he
simmers and sneers in disgust
not at other but at self, when he
leaves his gun at the door one too
many times and sneaks it past
when we sit with our legs crossed
and the madness makes us shiver
and as the jets scream overhead and
i begin to feel the chill of the evening
and feel alone and dark rippling
of the bile -- i really must find my
journal--it shall unlock the rusted
lock and although life is in fact a
joke, i haven't gotten into the swing
of things at all lately.