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I am the loud machine; carving echoes in your innocence. I am the government; being run by aging anarchists.
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I used to smoke a pipe and talk with whoever would listen; about God, truth, and life in general.
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As in a dream, I wander blind;
amongst the annals of humankind.
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Captured in part on a screen His is the eye of the Storm
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and his name was Sheldon. Superficial; naive; he remained a philosopher
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I'd rather be blind than not be there When you're undressed, unused, and unaware
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I am the world forgotten and forgetting you
Moving on, relentless and involuntary
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We are the casulties Of this mentality
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Every moment has its ending How that will be is all depending
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Deep within my poetry
Resting serene beneath each layered pretext
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I'm a comet with no tail I'm coming at you, illuminating
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I see you
Lying there next to me
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When we've been there ten thousand years Bright shining as the sun,
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Consecrate your heart in gold. The dreams, they soar in Cathedrals,
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I am an old man sitting on a bench, Dressed by eighty years; smelling of menthol,
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I want to describe something beautiful
And then compare it to my Lord
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I walked down so many, many roads
I was burnt, burdened, and desperate
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I'm sad and it's cliche I know
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Once I stood within a field The blades of grass wore a summered aroma
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Upturned and awed
Her face was to God
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There is a world seen through masculine eyes
Somewhat blurred and distorted by the masculine prize
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There is a world seen through feminine eyes That each day is shaped anew by feminine minds
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It took me 78 years. 75's expected, three because I'm slow
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I have stepped into a room without bounds
All I knew was vaguely the passage I took to arrive
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Sing liberty! Sing libertine!
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Grubby and ignorant my hands groped the air As the feet of a crab once turned on its back
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This is the moment before my life changes When the muzzled fog and smoke drift as one in cerebral halls
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I stood within a room, decayed - familiar
And in the centre shone a lamp as beautiful as diamonds
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To have been and to have been there
To have smelled the late spring essence retained in hair
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Hey Bukowski
I can complain too
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We share a name But we’re not the same
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We symbolized our own demise In the beat up telephone
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I'll not rest until one of these free-forms comes out of my mouth Uncouth, unedited a conscious train of bullshit art
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You're used up and faded out Love loved you last then let you down
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