i sit on a wooden bar stool across
from her
a tub of tobacco
waiting
to be rolled in
small rectangular sheets
yellowed fingers fumbling
my back aches, hunched over,
watching in wide-eyed wonder
green meeting her amber gaze
like a leaf caught in sap,
my lungs burn
but the acrid smell is so familiar,
through a foggy haze
she works,
her thin gray hair bound in a tight bun
a bronzed pin stuck through
the strands
her wide seventies-style glasses
stand at the edge of her sloped nose
connected with tubes to the
oxygen tank
About the Creator
V. B. B
I'm a pessimistic amateur poet and writer that has had a few violent and dark things published. Also, I love to make lists of my favourite movies, t.v. shows, books, and music.
Blueberry Sky
Today I studied the blueberry sky and admired the clouds of cream. My eyes chased the whipped shapes and found it to be such a dream. My heart followed the wind's direction, the devil-may-care breeze. I reached up from the grass that tugged me down, I'll never be tall like the trees—with their branches closer to touching the ocean that is the persisting sky, I'll stay cemented for my life, watching from the hillside. But even so, I'm meant to remain with my feet sown into the ground; it's still a nice thought to think that the vastness will take me around.
By Andi Leigh5 days ago in Poets
On Winning and Losing
Recently, the pleasant surprise of placement on the Vocal Bonus Leaderboard sent me down a rabbit hole. Now, rabbit holes are a pretty common place for me to spend time, but I don't always feel the call to write about them. To be honest, the thought of sharing some of them mortifies me.
By Dana Crandell4 days ago in Writers
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