Pop Poetry: Tilt

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Pop Poetry: Tilt

Beau Romanowski, Staff Writer

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Maybe if I stare at the molding

On the floor I wouldn’t last because now the water’s moving fast and I cannot make sudden movements

 

I’m stuck standing here now

I cannot frown it’s not my place

Who am I to weep for those who died harder than those closest to them?

 

Who am I to make a scene and scream 

“Why did you leave me?” When I needed you most?

 

At the wake of another, from the parts you ripped off I can now forever smell that sweet smell of decaying roses of white for purity and red for life,

 

But when I go to sleep at night I dream a dream where I did not lose you,

But I tilt my head.

 

To keep the flood gates closed and the water from flooding out because no, 

It’s not my place and I wish I could erase you from these memories inside my dream because when I smell the roses’ decay all I can do is tilt my neck to keep the water from flooding out because the floodgates broke a long time ago

And I Will Never. Not. Weep.

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