Why in a poem is something
almost always bruised?
I tire of bruised. Bruised
with passion, with violence,
maybe just a plummy color
of sunsets over apricot
orchards, always adding
atmosphere to someone's
poetic darling, their sneeze.
Bruised skies, bruised thighs,
bruised bloodshot pinpoint eyes,
bruised fruit from trees with
bruised bark under bruised
clouds in a lowering sky
under God's bruised pride.
I tire of bruised.
Let's all get abraded.
What kinds of poems have you been reading, anyway?
Horrible ones.
I lol'd :lulz: