Whispers are waking alarms
for the slumber-hungry slaves.
Bullets of demean rippling
in the stream of busy-ness.
The tongue, a weapon.
A spear, sharpened
by its ever loyal bearer
to curse the unaware,
to drive the guilt
into a journey of paranoia.
‘Heard from the grapevine yet, chica?
Advertisement
Hi, Mike! Thanks for stopping by and thanks for the kind words!
hello! haha, wow! Your site has changed a lot since i’ve been here. How are you? Cool short poems u got. Truly deep. My nose is bleeding! LOL
Show Me Your Look Today