gregory collins

At All Hours Of The Spleen

War is like a fifth wheel
on a thin line
At a fork in the road

Where the only elbow room
Is to eat one's words
To feel out of place

While all the while
Drowning one's sorrows
To drive someone else crazy

About how you can die of boredom
Whole holding your breath
With each other's throats

Topic(s) of this poem: War

Poem Submitted: Saturday, January 24, 2015
Poem Edited: Saturday, January 24, 2015

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