Ill Doesn’t Mean Classic… by P Chatelain

Ill Doesn’t Mean Classic

i think i have it, but having trouble
reconciling with the fact that i live
in a universe of crumbling masses.
i’m trying to make something that lasts.
if i stumble they laugh so it’s a struggle, don’t ask.
it’ll all pass, but don’t miss it when it does.
each kiss feels so different without love and i guess
“trying to get distance” is what it was.

the sun chases me so i’m just pacing to breathe,
planting seeds my heart waters when it bleeds.
beneath my skin are trees, nature knows me.
(from within, at least.) so with the least smirk
i tell the brown leaves, “desert me, please.”
it hurts as they leave, but the time spent nursing my skin
was worth the whole worlds weight in sin.


inspired by Charles Hamilton

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