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The final month of the well worn calendar, has turned over at last. The twelfth image of the year is with us
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We run with the sands of the hour glass. In the microcosm of our lives
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The threat of death gives us no choice, relieving the obsession of it
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It’s bright but cold, like potions in a two tone bath
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I’m proud to weave, the appearance of perceived misery
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An anchor, in my arms, rigamortis in the writing hand
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When you close your eyes, a lack of imagination is the only ceiling
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I hear an orchestra, roaring in the pits
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I’ve had intervention. Been saved from wearing a black suit. And laying roses on the grave
by Lisa Knight
39 lines,
on Aug 25 7:03 AM. In Personal, Thoughts, Life, Dark, Hope, Angst, Death, Lost in thought, Loss, Self
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I am not going to loathe, my imperfection. We all started as cherubs...
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I live in the shallow end, drying out in mermaid skin
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Time is running out, even when the best is made of it
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One half, is under the rain. The other screams, at the start of time
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Nature, looks down its plumage. While the shadows thin, into almost nothing
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The sky is blue and thatched in parts. Like a grandmothers blanket. That has known centuries
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Creativity is the difference between love and pessimism. We all have a clean slate, when we can explain ourselves
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A poor night, after the fun. Leaves me as the tired fool. Released, by indiscretion
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And you fall in, to conformity. Joining the march. Adding your echo. To the rushed procession
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The air has cleared. And my fortune.Has let itself be known
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I hold my eyes up. The clouds are absent. And the sea is in the sky...
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The commuter is wound. I can’t imagine myself, in an oasis
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My eyelids feel, like a stack of plates. If only I were Greek. I could philosophise, the importance of energy. Write pieces, for the eyes o
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All the doors are open. Every one hides a poem, something new to discover. About how I see, my story
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When I’m down, I feel like Atlas. My shoes are invisible in the dirt. But I need the down time, to notice the rush
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Encourage this day, from seed to centuries old
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Another day, is falling, like the beads, of abacus
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I’ve changed, the colour of my hair. Taken up, a new pen
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I feel like I’ve dived. Not to the depths, but upwards
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My pen, is a white dove, in a magicians hands. I know it will fly, with the right command
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In a restaurant of the skies
overlooking London town
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Saturday at Old Trafford. In the glorious sun. Has left me pink. In a constant state of flush
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Never drink wine, am
On virgin trains
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My temperature is past reasonable. And I'm confined, in an under conditioned carriage
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A street performer, will act against invisible walls. Turning the stark, into Technicolor. And I will become the song, of the first morning
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The satisfied nod, has sent my strands away, on a congratulatory tour
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