the lucrative air

the curse of having a temper.
I only write poems about me.
And you.
Fuck your broken heart.

Lost in the lucrative air
of running away,
this line burns
like a Volcano.

Duck the night.

I broken my pinky finger
on a glove box,
but no one cares,
except the lucrative air,
which is made great
by our breath.

At least, we still
contribute to some
atmosphere.