i feel
like a rusted
bucket spilling
out my blood
quicker than
the inclement
storms can
top me back
off again

my instincts
are screaming
to hide
i am far too
and everything
is confusing

wheezing dust
dried blood cells
caught in the
crevices of
arterial plaque
the saddest
self mocking snow
globe in existence

a leaky old
rusted bucket and
a poet are
exactly the same
charming in a
surplus and
useless in life


One thought on “buckets

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