poetic activity

Humans are supposed to be made of stardust, or is that just another story my grandmother tells the children to make them feel better? But oh wouldn’t that be fitting, all of un once belonging to great big balls of burning rocks before one ridiculous explosion. A boom that spread our dirt all over the univers. That shit’s so poetic it hurts. It’s like candy to a girl like me. So why can’t tonight’s poetry be about stardust souls and fiery beautiful hearts? Instead I’m sitting bitter as an old man on a sagging porch without the whiskey. I’m scribbling about cracked heads instead of broken hearts and claws racing down backs in fury rather than passion. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write about falling fire smiles or burning ember love. Just not tonight. Not tonight.
—  A.O.A.M || Bitter