Broke

Being broke is like having your penis nailed to the floor. It's inconvenient and hinders your ability to bang.

Before the next after the storm

Looking at the back yard, your at the store.Back door open, I'm on the step.July's temperature makes the garden slouch.Soil we mixed together.Little feet still echo in the sand.The sun made the grass smell so sweet.Deep breath, you come home, I exhale.September came too soon, who knew August would kill it?I came to burn it down.By October we were coals.I buried my heart in that back yard.There's a new small seed in my chest.I'm afraid it's from hell.I suppose I've killed enough to fill its shoes.I do not aim to make it proud.