PUNK POETRY: Nails by Arthur DeHart

Black nail polish,

chips into my morning cereal,

sunrise oclock,

my eyes aren't even awake yet,

and I reek of vodka,

from a night of chewing my nails,

and watching bands thrash. 

Fast forward,

and little do I know,

that in three years,

a sober life would take me,

right after your death,

because one of us.

must find a way,

to carry on. 

--Arthur DeHart