I dream of places I’ll never see

I yearn for people I’ll never meet

I scream from dreams that aren’t real

I am what they call “touched”


Touched by that old diseased wanderlust

Touched to the point that my blood boils

Touched so softly it makes my skin crawl

I’ll never have enough


I need more of everything

More words to soothe my savage soul

More oil paint caked beneath my fingernails

More dances beneath the moonlight


There’s no place for people like me

The world only offers so much

Yet we gobble all she has to give

We have the nerve to yell for more

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed