socks
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My lovely socks, wherever can you be?
No sign of you anywhere, it’s futile
The warmth you have given protected me
The thought of you gone makes me choke up bile
My feet are bare, they feel overly free
Of all the simplest of things.Sometimes love is a lot like socks.Some are long, some are short.Hell some even come up to the height of knees.Some are bland. Some are colorful.
I hate socks and shoes and all things in between that others insist I should suffocate my feet with.
Let me explain this a bit better
because I don’t want to come across as bitter.
If I could bring anything, I would bring my edgy socks
They breathe between who I am now and the steps I am taking to become
They smoothen the edges I have formed around my insides
My poetic socks
Are my favorite thing to wear.
They always fit right,
Feel right.
They always keep me warm,
Full of life.
They keep the blood pumping through my words
So that my poems pulse,
Open it up, see what it is,
The gift wrapped in a plastic bag.
Dirty hands, uncut nails
tear at that plastic bag.
Agreat smile comes, along with joy.
That child, lonely and homeless,
