Poetry / The desert is killing me
On the brink of shady, sour simplicity.
Digging tunnels in the black earth,
but never feeling dirty.
Scouring my salty, shallow skin,
but never getting clean.
Drought.
Sterile, static land.
Dry, dirty thirst.
Belly full of sand
Lizards, and snakes, and scavenging beasts
run rampant and fully alive.
Claws, and talons, and tines
converge at a nervous, pulsing point
and shave instances of sanity
off my scalp.
The desert is still killing me.
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Let me know if I’m laying it on too thick, but every piece of yours I read, I get more and more impressed. Not only do you relate your emotions the the reader, but you make me so jealous that now I need to go write something and push myself to make myself better.
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