Echoes are little more than
a longing for constancy,
bitterness toward forward movement.
Tresses squeal soft refusals,
glittering like surgical blades.
Fuck the stucco.
Something's dying here.
Best allocate assets elsewhere.
Can fantasy flash into being?
Failed auditions aren't unique,
There has to be a better formula.
What is the sum of 11 and 8:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.