Poetry, a little.

I like the sky. It looks nice. We can be nice. I’m tired, but I can still be nice and when that happens my hands won’t ache and my chest won’t feel so full; full like it’s going to burst unless I die, and maybe I shouldn’t die just yet because there’s so much to do that we have to do until it’s done, and maybe then.

-M. Taggart

6 thoughts on “Poetry, a little.

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