#3

I like to write poetry. Bad poetry.

PARCH
The heat is overwhelming.
Thick enough to chew.
Sucks the air,
right out your lungs.
Leaves you breathless and brain dead.
I drag my feet.
Not the only thing leaving me dry.

VACATION
Golden leaves hang the night.
The cat’s asleep in the corner.
The dog pants across the floor.
Pale light shines.
Arthritis sets in.
Physically sick from the ignorance,
I see.
Where problems should solve themselves,
we let our Gods do the thinking.
While we sit back and relax.

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