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Literature Text
The world is wrong and we all know it.
One can’t say how it should be, it simply won’t fit.
No matter, it takes wiser minds than mine to see;
Even if it could be said fluently.
The world is wrong and I’m screaming,
But all ears around are deaf and ringing.
I do not blame them that they can not hear,
With so many voices and even more fear.
This world is wrong and it’s killing me,
Neck deep in the tide of lost and broken keys.
A window above me with no hope to reach,
Tells tales of wonder that I beseech.
My world is wrong and I’m dreaming,
To fix what will never be redeeming.
One can’t say how it should be, it simply won’t fit.
No matter, it takes wiser minds than mine to see;
Even if it could be said fluently.
The world is wrong and I’m screaming,
But all ears around are deaf and ringing.
I do not blame them that they can not hear,
With so many voices and even more fear.
This world is wrong and it’s killing me,
Neck deep in the tide of lost and broken keys.
A window above me with no hope to reach,
Tells tales of wonder that I beseech.
My world is wrong and I’m dreaming,
To fix what will never be redeeming.
Literature
Fallen
When I was little, I held my hands up
and there was always a bigger pair
there to pick me up, raise me up
Dark and cold both accumulate near the ground
but I had found
a path to heaven, now forgotten
as the earth turns 'round;
So overcome by confusion, how...?
I can't cast my demons out
one devil still pulls me down
off the earth and off my gentle cloud
I lay upon the ground,
bloodied, broken, beaten down
and lament my fate, silenced now
He recalls his immoralities as if
they were someone else's little slips
and though his words have scarred me
much deeper than any knife or whip
he parades through town, a man, a god
going on about life as
Literature
Suis-moi
suis-moi en bas
en bas
en bas
permettre aux chaînes de rentrer dans ta peau
suis-moi dans l'obscurité
l'obscurité
l'obscurité
donne-moi ta main
suis-moi à travers les plantes grimpantes
les plantes grimpantes
les plantes grimpantes
les plantes grimpantes sont le sumac grimpant
boire mon poison,
mourir avec moi
suis-moi
suis-moi
suis-moi en bas
Literature
notesleep
playing my emphases like harp strings
your voice smokes thru the oaken bramble
pour a carbonated apology, a sun-stained
mile marked envelope, two ill-fitted birds,
hands small holes right before a rush of river
what it feels like being swallowed from the outside
crushing rings into truth serum, pretend
to be out of tune with that deception
I have been unable to parse my own persona
a pink cotton voice I remember thru the phone
I remember because it formed me into a granary
one crop after another of patriarchal idioms
whisper my secrets so softly into a glint of red hair
a saucer-eyed lace pattern cut into pine paper
I practice radical self lo
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Comments4
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I still remember, after reading this, that my mother would scorn me by saying "You are right, the world is wrong." I had good values and I hated fighting, but the world likes a good fight. It IS wrong! Thanks for the affirmation.