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I grew up in rows of houses ending in graveyards,
where six feet of dirt covered the mound of my existence
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mornings are a mother’s mirror
merciless in clarity and
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love formed
thick circles--
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war wears heavy boots stained by hatred;
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The fog drifts
like memory--
by Cupcrazy
10 lines, 9 comments,
on Nov 17 1:56 PM
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an ugly woman sits and dons the perceived beauty of man,
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separation stood
in the cold shadow of eyes
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a plethora of words
finds little space.
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clapboard shivered on the old outhouse
groaning endlessly against howling wind
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poetry gave her today
what appeared lost yesterday;
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beneath, we sit--
pale and pristine,
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he'd pasted her--
onto still life pages;
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between the green and black
of a bruised earth
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the stairway of sobriety
has too narrow a view
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I dwell in somber grays
hovering between black
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innocence dwells in the eyes--
of potatoes left rotting,
by Cupcrazy
45 lines, 2 comments,
on Oct 10 1:09 AM
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she wore that same faded yellow
the cloak of October I called it
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curled up in a room--
amid snoring walls
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eyes trace lines
that years have etched
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I watch the news nearly everyday,
but it seems it’s nothing but a damn replay.
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Tagged straight from birth, her time drew near,
tail happily wagging, too stupid to fear.
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words were not necessary
to write the story,
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do not leave me
for I wear your absence--
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to me--
gold will always be
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she curled with desperation tiny fingers grasping familiarity
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Beside the River Styx I waited,
while my mind contemplated.
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lips settle into curves
separated by degrees of desire
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experience lays tattooed in lines
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I've often wondered why
life is measured by age
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Burnished copper adorned mornings and sunsets--
amid fields of silken bounty;
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