Black Ballon’s a poem

Don’t go popping black balloons. 

The red or orange ones are better. 

I’m not emo anyway || huh.

Crusty white knuckle streets streaked with overhead lights. 

Humming poles holding slap tags to slump on. 

Newspaper, media, graffiti. 

We need to find lovers who can read us. 

Fake love but you got you’re hand out. 

Take all the time you need I don’t mind to watch it bleed away. 

I got no place to be faded. 

Can’t hate the game we just play it but. 

Birthdays, parties ballon’s aren’t fun. 

Yesterday, today, tomorrow. 

Friends of fair weather they find me junking round town. 

Scrap a little scratch || ten smacks. 

Pop! 

Don’t go popping black balloons. 

The other colors are better. 

I’m not impressed in anyway || huh. 

Dingy metal beams stretching overhead block the lights out.  

Echoing musky hobo writing thats slept on. 

Red face, man scape, hipsters. 

We need to find a place that expects us. 

Real love but it’s from wash outs. 

Given enough time it goes away I don’t mind. 

I got no safe space to qualm your jaded eyes. 

Just play along even though we hate them. 

Everything’s cake, celebrating but balloons aren’t fun. 

Blood, substance, sorrow. 

Hospital bed, my friends they find me foul weathered I quit junking round. 

Scratch it inside a little but it gets scraped || ten smacks. 

 Pop!