Good People Poem by Dylan Rivera

Good people are like finding clean white socks
cotton,
and when the winter comes,
they protect any air
reaping through unknown seams on the bottoms of boots,
freshly cleaned from pure snow.

I know.
They leave room for joints to rest slightly curved,
but not bending from a shoe to small.
Bad people are corns and bunions
with sentiments of apathy.

They live so tragically.
Not too often have my feet been kept warm,
but with toes locked together,
ruby colored;
iced temperatured.

Deferred,
stretching to greet blue veins pulsing with formal morals.
Poisonous blood; contagious:
riding with what has gone on for ages.

Cold feet venomous to the brain,
yet the polars never came.
Walking in the coldest water.
But don't we all besiege our unselfish ways.
Tie a rope to it because we've all been hurt,
Bitterness, only learnt?