Young Writers Society

Hi, I'm Black and here is something I got-- It's not very good, but it will have to do:

I blow corvette smoke with a final thrust
Driving the white butt into the ashtray
Kicked up and the backs are gone
There is pad dim that seep through the shades
All shattered because I just hate it
My lamps are antiques, but you never see them

I tally the rim of a leather and hat, satisfied
It smiles and rests of rings and roses
Glazed hair underneath strips by
Like a bronzed and chromed barrel to uzis
Too much blaze, and the clear air
Suffocates within the walls of my office

I look through some papers, black desk
Finding something I’ll never use
My eyes throw themselves at it, like I care
There the door knuckles with a soft tap
The voice I shoot whips the dust and bite
And like old, the office sags in dark welcomes

I hit up another pair of sticks, flicking and turning
A peppermint drift makes me hack with bums
My handcuffed gaze looks as the knob,
It closes with muffled moans and streams
There is a silhouette but not a shadow
Red and yellow, it’s like on of those damn shows

I roll the buzz in between fingers and points
The lady, she trickles some words and appeals
Her crimson lips flash and sparkle sweet nothing
And the sunburst waves, the blonde locks
They suspend and pulley in drama and pleas
Such kissing annoys; it ruins moods and time

I sleep the grasps of my Eagle, lying smoothly
She insists and shakes determined curls
My puffs makes her choke and burn
More so this time, she heels the wood floor
And turns to stalk the entrance some more
Trigger and happy, smooth and silk

I balance on seat, and fire neatly like Wednesday
And the passing of one’s wife’s finds the other
Car and trailer screams outside windows
The barrel blows the will-o-whisp at the shadows
That standing figure circles its silhouette
My lamps are antiques, but you never see them