Object Poetry

The calm strumming of a ukelele,
takes my worries away.
As you feel
the strings just melt
in your heart,
but when you can't focus
it just tears the song apart.
You can smell the fresh new song
in the air
when I'm pulling out my heart strings.


The broom scrapes the floor,
taking the dirt off the ground like a vacuum
sucking everything in it's way.
The broom is brown like wood in my hand,
giving me blisters.
Blisters, burn like boiling water.
I smell wood in hard tech
with dust around me,
tickling my nose
till I 
sneeze.