(based on suggestions from @_camer0n, @sulphura, @realnixwilliams, @Quadelle)
March sounds like a wet poodle.
It brings out the best in locked room
mysteries. There is no alternative
to clothes when the day turns cool.
All cotton shirts smell like
too many days in the machine.
Stretch on polyester, synthetic
crackle of background outfits.
There is the worst noise in the
back of my frizzy head today.
It stinks of ugly dogs but I'll
get them washed tomorrow.
Today’s poem is based on suggestions from four peeps:
- @_camer0n: “Synthetic background noise”
- @ sulphura: “
- @realnixwilliams: “What autumn smells like”
- @Quadelle: “Best and worst of the day.”
I woke up late today and didn’t have time to write a poem. Then I had to come home from work, and spent most of the day asleep. I wasn’t up for writing one this evening in the slightest. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I have written one anyway. It’s short, because time is short.
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