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A poem for my friend who was un-able to see his mom before she past.
by ginknee314
21 lines, 1 comment,
on Jun 17 11:59 AM 2008. In Sad, Funeral, Hope, Love, Pain, Illness, Sick, Disease, Heartbroken, Loss
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I am who I am, just a-rolling along
VICTORY's my shoes, hope is my heart's song.
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I believe i have powers
Or maybe i dont?
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I'm screaming inside cant you hear me,
Or is it just all In my head,
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chills creep up and down my body
mercilessly sucking the energy from me
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Within my loves den, feelings grow within.
Watching his sweet face, my eyes start watching
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Crouch down to dwelling
the rocks keep asking,
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Every breath of air
Infected
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The medication never ends.
My disease is simpler than cancer.
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Three hours… Three days a week… three tenths of my life spent on that machine…
Without it I wouldn’t even have the other seven tenths of m
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Acidic silencing chaos
discomforting spirits
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Some time shame comes in different forms
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As these surgeons with their gentle braille search soft beneath my skin
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Sad frameworks which alone would damp the spark
What specialness draws Heaven’s light from dark?
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And if I'm fed, I'm fed with love
Blind to sins I'm guilty of
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Daylight Hours' acid burning
Marks My skin
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Stars in the sky of Indian Summers, she snuck out to play nightgames.
Fresh, wild and free she wore shorts and barefeet.
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"Hope you feel better soon."
they say,
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This disease is still lingering,
Illusive and lonely.
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Your acidic last words echo in my head
I don't care about how cold you were
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why must we dream in metaphors
trying to dream
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My bones grow weary / Inside this shell / My brain feels like a slug / Trapped in hell / Burning, the burning never goes out / My inner demons scream and they shout / Terror, fear alludes my soul /
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Bitter pelts of rain / Upon me / Lost within myself again / This is a thought you can keep / Pull the life away from me. / / Take myself a
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Tomorrow I will breathe, pneumonia
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They don’t get it anymore she said,
the girl who walks.
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The C-word is not said on TV
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The man within who yells at me
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The moment we step out into the landscape, I know it is right for us to be here.
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All the words are leaving Aristotellically
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It’s Christmas Eve, And I’m feeling so ill,
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Lips dry flaking with the intense fever
Blood curls as the perpetration expels
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And I fade away-
Everything just goes to waste
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