Gone: a tirade

Smiles for them, and me, a punching bag.

~

It tastes of ash and feels like halfway home.

But I glance at faded street-signs,

flickering street-lights,

and dust paints my sneakers

till I'm one with beige monotony.

Scratch out belonging from my dog-eared dictionary,

it bleeds irony.

Irony squeezing itself out through the sun,

burning my skin.

Happy days of now fade to nights drunk on days compared.

The past yanks on my puppet strings, spits on my heartstrings,

and it tastes of ash, Everything burnt up.