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#1 |
rhyme capsule.
Join Date: Sep 2018
Posts: 2,150
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A handful of things I’m rarely thankful for:
my brain, its beauty, and a pair of hands that wrought the path I forged – a path that’s worn because I keep snoozing in a circus. Circling surplus sleepwalkers move without a purpose; I’m worthless. Or Earth’s best when she nurtures (my nurse left). My words shift spent chemic blood to remind my words’ intent. In a sense I’m indigent; I need my Self to reinvest in the idea of me. I need rhyming to knot my livelier conceits. I need lines that I jot to provide a concrete I can flatten my face against. Slattern, the way she dressed, but natural, amazing breasts. Pattern: this pays her rent, happens I spray her legs. After, we make a mess to capture the paltriest taste of death. Life that I grip remembers to take a breath. My mind in a stint where it stays in an ancient tense, the life that I’ve lived questions the way it went, It’s an act just like this that I sprang from. Damn, son. I’m not thankful that I’m my Dad’s son. I’m thankful that I’m handsome, which means my priorities are messed up: I’ve wounds these fine threads can’t dress up. Bleeding the thought is cathartic I guess, but revisiting notions is sort of carving the next cut. Yet I’m thankful for the hammer, the anvil, the pencil, shaping my gait for any hardship I went through. |
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