Playing with words

Sometimes one gets used to words
And they are uttered without really anything to mean
Like one kind of a routine
Like you’re one kind of a boring bookworm
Office house
House office
Church on Sundays
Seldom (having sex in some
First time places)

Sometimes one goes to the toilet without
Switching on the lights or having to open one’s eyes
There is a memory
Of what comes first and comes later
Of what one need not think anymore
Something so ordinary so invisible

We forget what meaning is
We die without really knowing why
There were words then
We remember
There is no more chill
Like a red apple that you love to bite
Fresh from the ref

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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