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Toast from the grey shirt in the blue green smoke in the pipe of the sardines from South Carolina City going down the street by the white line like velvet paperclips on the fresh cut lawn rolling next to the brain in December.
Lost the brain
In the wheel
On the floor.
Covered with mud,
In the kitchen,
Covered with mud and blood.
Why?
That's the way they like it,
For the neighbors,
For the friends.
It doesn't matter at all,
In the end.
In the end, everything's grey,
Grey to dark.
No one can see.
No one can breathe.
It's in the way,
It's almost dead,
It is all nonsense,
All you've read.
It makes sense to someone on the 4th of July where it's illegal.
It's all garbage,
Just garbage,
Nothing but garbage,
Not poetry,
Garbage.
Run-ons, fragments, and poor punctuation,
That's all I'll ever hear.
I wrote this poem in the 8th grade on a Tuesday, and that's why it is the name of this poem. I know it's not very creative, but it was hard to give a name to a poem like this. In the first paragraph there, I was just trying to be as random as possible. This is another poem that doesn't have much meaning. It's mostly just rhyming words. I complain about criticism of my poetry at the end, but I don't think I really had a lot of criticism.
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