You choke upon the apron strings of miss cleaver and
wish you could have a piece of blue-laced sky on a plate
tasting the battery acid of your generation you wish to
die
it’s all for the praise of a god you dropped to the floor
all for the reasons you gave up for wishing you had taken
the gold plated door into your oblivion of consumer
products like a societal whore who begs for more
:: 11-02-2014 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 