▲ 3 r/OCPoetry
Sweater
Sweaters
The silence of yet to become is starting to be overbearing.
My brain doesn’t think in words or phrases.
Rather in paintings of concepts.
My mouth shoots out yarn.
My brain thinks in sweaters.
The screams of others mellow my own.
I wish not to hear my teeth clatter.
For when I do, I’m reminded of the strangulation by yarn.
I lock my jaw, I plug my nose, bullets flood my eardrums like tsunamis.
I’ve been released from my chains.
The thinker of sweaters is free to move, that is blood in veins.
To hair in the wind.
Links:
u/Finch02_ — 4 days ago