Muse |
Muse |
Grit. Like spit. But with a roar, a rumble. Inside a yellow tub it hides. I bet its thirsty, being full of salt. A rough crystalline mix, Like that sand scrub you can get, For your face. Particles in your pours, Particles of yours, they snore Inside that submarine. It has surfaced by sleeping, dreaming With its lid closed shut. A wide smile protrudes its features. Its chin, a hand clef. Easy feed hole. Or hold. Shovel in that pasty, cake. "I like it crumbly", it says. That's my grit. That's my spit. Bits to bite the ice. Originally written in 2012, age 16
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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