old poems, poetry


Itchy fingers. Black mail. Dooms day? Maybe.

     Ponytails, curly ones

     they dangle in front of me like spaghetti noodles.

Remember those panties you had when you were little?

The pink ones with the ruffles on the back?

You loved them, remember? 

Please remember. Please.


Well anyways I threw them out 

with yesterdays garbage.


They were tired.