ITT poetry threab

roses are red
voilet is blue
i maked poopy
in my bed

Under Cover of Night

To slip into your shadow under cover of night.

To follow your footsteps, your shadow at the window.

That shadow at the window is you and no one else;
it's you.

Do not open that window behind whose curtains you're moving.

Shut your eyes.

I'd like to shut them with my lips.

But the window opens and the breeze, the breeze
which strangely balances flame and flag surrounds my escape
with its cloak.

The window opens: it's not you.

I knew it all along.

She came to me
with broken wings,
And blamed the doctor
for she could not fly

and the raspberry
as the sun rose
decided to lock down
the orchard and dissolve
but instead
it swelled

the contagious moans
of the finch
continued after the lights
and only the hose
brought silence

this story
of a brutally operatic teen
and the
proposal of an identity donation

perverted belonging
and
alternating ghosts

however blinding

a hundred great polars
and not one
apparently red bastion

if only the intruding dancer
wouldn't have been ugly
he could have prevented
the ocean ground execution

I liek ur proety