Trains of Thought
The Great Escape- Intensive Journal Writing
If I could fly away right now, what would I be leaving behind?
Chuncks of concrete
rusted metal
gunhumpers, silly boys who don’t wear socks, women who pull their hair back into greasy ponytails, drunken whores and delusional lovers
came
crashing down on streets named after trees that don’t grow here anymore.
Home is where Netflix lives.
Murica, Feel The Bern, I don’t see color I see the person
I am fair and honest and true.
Is my phone charged? Does it need to be fed?
Home is where Instagram says it is.
Chunks of concrete, rusted metal
crashed to Earth
with a thud
held together by
a sticky web of silly boys who don’t wear socks, girls with greasy hair tied back into a ponytails, the drunken whores the deluded lovers,
the Berners, the Humpers, the starving phones
blended and forced into embraces by each other
they are
poisoned rain falling from a flat and listless sky
feeding the corpse of a dead world.
At The Crossroads 