Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

Milk’s Gone Sour

You rose over me,
Like the 6 a.m. fog on the interstate.
Comforted by the occasional times we held one another yet,
Turned off by the lack of consistency.

I push through,
I realize that even the fog has a place.
As I still search for mine,
I am aware it is time to cut my losses.

To continue to make myself known in a world where everyone is a stranger smiling,
And pretending that they are happy, if not content with what they have.

Happy with good mornings and good night’s that were never really mine,
But, were just on loan like a flute that had passed through many hands, many lips.

Joyous for the time I so foolishly gave up impulsively.

Yet, what is the area of time,
When only ones gives it?
Should this be measured by being  tucked away carefully in a bedroom?

Figuring the base times height, times width of bodies left regurgitating last week’s leftovers.
When the market is closed,
The milks gone sour
And alone is what you feel.


Single Post Navigation

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

fuck the lemonade

when life gives you lemons #fuckthelemonade make art instead

Perfect Chaos

God's Perfect Purpose in a Chaotic World

SouL SpeakS

He started Writing, The paper started speaking...

poetics~cool out of the rafters

what goes in must come out!!

%d bloggers like this: