black sheep

i’m getting tired of  stumbling over dead bodies, eating toothpaste, and  watching the trees set fire

i hear all the blind robots leak out their paint

the way you kill pigeons makes me wonder if your diamonds melt

you’ve made the moon angry the sun hangs low with depression  the clouds above you have a green swirl

the way you burn the legs off spiders, and  mow away the flowers, and  breed black kats, and  bite your nails— as you flock over your dead sheep— makes me realize you have no sympathy

i’m getting tired of  slipping in blue paint i’m getting sick of  stumbling over dead bodies