inescapablereality
Learn more about other poetry terms
Like an old toy,
Waiting to be played with again.
Collecting dust,
Thrown in a ben,
Taking up space in my room
Only fond memories prevent its doom.
But you’re not a toy.
I'm whiskey and sadness poured into a shot-glass
Swallowed down for the burn so you can know how long your esophagus is.
I am lost loves and hung-out hopes with the sweet notes of rum on your tongue.
