By Sonam Kaloti, Arts Editor
crack pot.
little whispers,
âdid you see her
blowinâ dust, coughinâ windpipes.â
so slow
all these shadows seem to move,
are you scared that Iâm not your type?
oh, go fast.
bloody fingers,
death wish lingers.
clutching glass,
reflecting downtown.
gunshots
echoing all through the city.
do these ladies want a piece of me?
Iâve got shorts on at three degrees.
theyâre telling me to leave,
get used to a little knee.
