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I sit here, in my chair,
not wondering, not hoping,
not dreaming, only writing.
Today I could write a poem about love,
about anger,
about issues that I have never thought of before…
but I could…
I don’t want to try today,
I don’t feel like feeling.
I favor the presence of emptiness filled with foam.
At least I’m warm.
Will I die tomorrow?
Will my car give out in the middle of the highway?
The now does not care…
for now, I am fine.
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I
would love for you to screw the meaning of
another poem up again... really I would. So
please, do so freely as I leave no explanation
for your mind to devour which, if in place of
this statement, may have eventually justified
conclusions referring to a lacking intelligence
(directed at me) or regards directing ideas of
my potential to some day turn out as one of the
worst writers of all time. Take the above poem
for what it is. If you are too slow to pick up
on whatever messages I may be trying to send,
try not to bleed out of your eye... so we have
an understanding now do we? Good. Also, please
remember, I'm not angry, I'm just misunderstood. |
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