Something wishy-washy this way comes.
Thumb suckers anonymous in session.
Amid ruin and recession,
dry heaving and wet paper bags…
A ghastly hope projected on a tattered screen.
So I screamed with all my might
that you or someone else might
rush in to clean my mess.
Collapsing in confessionals…
I was a professional shit zipper.
You, a whisper through the keyhole.
And our souls, a bundle of twine.
In mine own fall, I spoke your secret.
And the zephyrs breathed your name.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 