I don't want to be a fish
sliced in dishes,
sent to everybody.
I am not me, not complete.
Like Monday morning,
torn apart by every mouth,
ordered by every phone,
I'm worn out, my boss.
I must be delicious, my boss.
Mustard and soy sauce, no need.
You say that I can be everything.
Your eyes, Sushi knives,
Don't push me, I'm dead.
I'm already in your belly.
--
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※ 文章網址: https://www.ptt.cc/bbs/poetry/M.1470979813.A.705.html
※ 編輯: korn31910 (114.25.51.174), 08/12/2016 13:40:51
※ 編輯: korn31910 (42.72.71.117), 08/13/2016 08:44:42