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Literature Text
There is no charm which I can possibly offer to you today,
it seems that by and large I have nothing important to say.
It seems that my humor, and insight are simply awkward,
My down is up, my black is grey, my growth is backward.
Why do I evangelically feel some need to reach out to you,
TO please you the only thing I could ever accomplish or do.
Is that which thing, above all else that I instinctively fear,
Which is to simply fade away, and to casually disappear.
In this my soul is stretched to each side from its middle,
While the dark of obscurity slashes away with a sickle.
Continued torment, seems like a very real possibility,
While dejected slinking away also seems to suite me.
In either case let the limbo at long last finally be over,
Let me feel the soft relief as if like a cushion of clover.
Let the bitterness fade to the loamy, earthy scent,
I have no more need of the reaching, or to vent.
Like the last bars of sunlight, the deepening dusk,
Like a lover leaving only their now fading musk.
Take all my ivity, and leave me syncope to you,
Letting you rest peacefully with no more ado.
I hope you live well, but as a selfish person,
I hope that you wonder about all that fun.
The fun in the doting, loving, and joking,
The significance in never ever faking.
Suffice to say, that I’m not clever,
Streaks of grey hands of leather.
Simple smile, nothing designer,
Not cocky and always kinder.
So keep flittering around,
With nothing profound.
Its easy lady to tell,
Like a ringing bell,
You wear it well
it seems that by and large I have nothing important to say.
It seems that my humor, and insight are simply awkward,
My down is up, my black is grey, my growth is backward.
Why do I evangelically feel some need to reach out to you,
TO please you the only thing I could ever accomplish or do.
Is that which thing, above all else that I instinctively fear,
Which is to simply fade away, and to casually disappear.
In this my soul is stretched to each side from its middle,
While the dark of obscurity slashes away with a sickle.
Continued torment, seems like a very real possibility,
While dejected slinking away also seems to suite me.
In either case let the limbo at long last finally be over,
Let me feel the soft relief as if like a cushion of clover.
Let the bitterness fade to the loamy, earthy scent,
I have no more need of the reaching, or to vent.
Like the last bars of sunlight, the deepening dusk,
Like a lover leaving only their now fading musk.
Take all my ivity, and leave me syncope to you,
Letting you rest peacefully with no more ado.
I hope you live well, but as a selfish person,
I hope that you wonder about all that fun.
The fun in the doting, loving, and joking,
The significance in never ever faking.
Suffice to say, that I’m not clever,
Streaks of grey hands of leather.
Simple smile, nothing designer,
Not cocky and always kinder.
So keep flittering around,
With nothing profound.
Its easy lady to tell,
Like a ringing bell,
You wear it well
Literature
Angstxiety
I am work weak on Wednesday
in a heap of hangover and hesitation
with fingers on a phone haptically
actively anticipating feedback—
I need that why do I need that.
My angst and anxiety
is constant and courses
and throbs with a pulse
that demands concern
of a baby boomer crooning poetic
in the distance to call me antisocial, or you know,
you could just call me.
If being this busy in an age
of constant communication
feels like having slept
but not feeling rested,
I'd rather cancel my plans
like a responsible millennial
and go to bed.
Literature
Do you feel the same?
I'm still just so lost
Can't believe my sadness
You shouldn't leave
What can I say?
I never felt this way
Tried to ignore it for months
I can't hide no more
Maybe it's too late?
My blush increases every second
You know I like someone
But you don't know it's you
Maybe it's true?
You make me smile
I talk happily with you
With you I feel safe and happy
Do you feel the same?
Literature
Hate
I hate
I hate well
I hate feverishly
I am the churning acid in your stomach
I am the blood pounding in your head
I am the white-knuckled fist clenching to strike
I am the red haze dimming your eyes
and clouding your mind
I am the rage that lashes out at the weak
the small and defenseless
justified by tears and fueled by alcohol
I hate passionately
I am the shaking in your hands
and grinding teeth
nails digging into your palms
I am everything you hate
boiling to the surface in a froth of
bile
blood
and excrement
I am the indiscriminate spray of bullets
at the school
church
nightclub
I am the madman raving on the news
heaping blame
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It seems like that piece of me with any poetic ideas is languishing in the doldrums, and you can't find Jimmy Buffet when you need him. So I dug back into the archives and found a piece of angst from the 'Tweenage Years' when I knew a lot about very little, and very little about a lot.
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Nice