I rely on the fonts to flavor the content of my scrolls
But how do I know my poetic politics solve Pandora's box?
Am I leaking Ginger Gold, or am I the sound of a spittoon?
I lean on the temple of my mind's oracle to comfort another's hesitation, but my mind still linger's on the vessel of my own demise.
Cup of poetry isn't sip by the barista, yet made through coffee grinds and espresso machines.
The assassination of your caffeine addiction. Yet this poetry still wallows on the bridges of your lip.
Must I write like--- Who'm Shall thou' not taste, or can my amateur English activate the dopamine among your breath.
About the Creator
ShondaWho
•Published Poet/Writer
•Proud College Student
•Creatively breaking down my mind to expand yours 📖
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*About Me*
◇ Gay Black Female
◇ Storytelling, Poetry, Spokenword
◇ I ❤ Spring
The Reluctant Reporter
"You can't send me!" "There is no-one else. It's you or no-one, and that is not an option." Ameera looked at the fat paunch and florid face of her boss, a man who lived for the story and the kudos it brought him but who rarely gave consideration to the people behind the drama. When had he become so hard? She reckoned that by the end of the year, he'd be dead, collapsed from a heart attack and she struggled to conjure any sympathy in that moment and instantly felt ashamed at displaying the same lack of compassion that he had.
By Rachel Deeming8 days ago in Fiction
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