Oh,, poetry.

I met an acid named empty.

The feeling of

emptiness

inside of my stomach

refuses to be filled with

peaches, plums or

apple cores.

I’m not hungry, only lonely, but anyways.

My stomach fell in love with an acid called empty.

I grow trees and strawberry seeds

but the orchards continue to venture onto

forbidden territory and places where

X doesn’t mark the spot.

And Peter Pan was only delusion and

the ocean was only a raindrop enlarged by the skies

magnify glass.

But the fluids continue on as if it was

winter and

the pears grow because they want to win the

state fair.

They are rather large.

But people made of paper and

firemen that have never put out a flame

cannot fill me,

even if they do inhabit my organs.

Colonies and bank robberies,

I’m still spilling over with nothing but

continuous homicides and

chain reaction suicides

that I can’t control.

If only me and my stomach weren’t so small…