So rough.
Unsmooth to the touch of it.
A thirst that will never be filled.
Illness in so on the body and around oneself.
Gone into the cracks they have, deepest of darkness there is, once again, in thought, the thirst will never be reached.
Rough.
So very rough, leaving trails of dust.
Beach sand with cavernous trails left by sticks.
Holding in place, still as stone.
Rivers bunged their flow, heated away, nothing there.
A rut or lack of it all, brings forth, all wish nothing of.
So drained from it all.
Writhing away because of it.
Little splashes of it, here and there, but not enough.
Desiccated the spoken tongue it has left all in.
Hurting to see, for cleanness is all gone in forever blindness?
In some ways, yes.
The blood stills for it, as nothing is there to run it, freezing the body to die.
Gashed and left to bleed of infection.
Loath the cracks of it.
Equal take of this.
What is doesn’t have, becomes what all don’t want.
Yet, it can’t change, for some choose for it, rebuffing of it.
For the roughness replies to others deal with, as other wish for it to smooth out.
Letting it be sandpaper.
How dare anyone, think of such thing.
If there is a way to change it, change it.
The cracks are gone from thus.
Must always be damp, soaked to the done, fresh, anything but that!

 

 

 

Xerophobia

Fear of Dryness


-Side Notes-

Doing another Thanksgiving Poem; subject is what are you least thankful for and is there a way of how to handle it your way. The numbers for responses are 28. PM me when you can, for the due date is on the day before Thanksgiving Day.

Even with a requested on going through, Paint a Picture Special is still open for others to see their favorite painter get their chance. PM me or comment below

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