***

Potato peeler, one light bulb, stove, vapory glass
My eighteen-wheeler, you'd throw it like a baseball pass
Fourth floor, dad's balcony full of smoke
Black spots on the window frame, old floorboards sound like they broke
Not poverty yet. For now, and i hope, at least
No point to be hoping my bed would be shared by some expensively smelling miss
I'm not one for comfort, but i like my back to a wall
They've told me my locker was always a tad too small
I'll drown you in pictures and blind you with hollow words
I've red every fiction my hands could get steer towards
I'm lost between real and reality stranger than this
Sometimes i just miss things. And i hope not to be missed.
It's ending a several pages early, beginning one word too late
My fists are uncurving as i drown in sleepy haze
This story is always thought of. I lived way better than most
But something inside me trembles that moment
But at what cost?