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mark-nealy
American Nothing to say.
i hear you why can i not put you into words sick devil of my mind.. illuminate my eyes from this void allow me sight, so that i may destroy what need not be hatred is all that fills these lungs anger, disgust, rage, sadness, inequality is all this shell feels. Unable to think straight any longer purple swirls of depressing pills swallowed by the kitchen sink indescribably, carelessness, sentimental, afraid Irrational phone call phobia, haha a desperate attempt to change too useless i feel, ***** when i hear its ill ringtone soulless, discrete, oblivious, fitting in My minds manifesto to those it cares nothing about, why would it, emotionless, senseless obligation to what? social recall of those different, seemingly made to feel in-superior to the elite.
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Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 6:24 PM UTC
A Crazy Rambled Rant
What am i ? the betrayer; embracing there lies his guilt her shame           Understanding nothing with loose lips, creating the cultist; with there dignity his voice her distress           My high quality facade is the shadow; causing there insanity his experiment her instability           Without care, its eyes fade and voice dims into the nothing; blaming there conformity his understanding her ambition
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Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC
A Misunderstanding
When i look at the trees from my back window door, i watch as the green leaves burst from purple to orange, screaming in a subtle silence that i can't possible ignore, creeping and staring at me with devils eyes galore, wider and wider they grow, haunting my ever soul, with my back window door mechanically born, laughing and crawling to me from the outside ground to my living room floor, that ****** back window door will silence me no more! in my lonely cage of rage, that horrible back window door, will be put to the fires, by my dark love of sinful desire.
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Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 1:26 PM UTC
Day in a cage
When you preserve returned like a time I want you to breath on my hand among the dark animosity of the oblivion the rigid crab weaves in the hidden parallel funerals lighting the telegraph of her wreath full of tiredness they forced it with lonely rivers and meetings of tenacious eyelids I do not hate in the jungle of weak dominion the jungle like brick the angel preserving from my eye pockets of aluminum converted into golden went unburned in springtime confusion and autumn - kisses of embarassement I do not compound in the thicket of harsh stench I'd do it for the writing in which you perform for the cathedrals of deep brown movie you've attracted pockets of iron converted into glass in the middle of the inaccessible field of thirsty garden transparent earth to my dry river.
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Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 11:41 AM UTC
There is no mask
Plastic Saint,         Alone without love in the sea of his heart Waves and ****** with delusions of rain in the night sun,         Times and ticks away through skys vast soul, The end has taken control,         Where only Dreams know of his memories lost and paid in times toll.
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Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
Plastic Saint
See the women walking, Help her out. See the poor man starving, Walk on by. See the kitten stuck in the tree, Climb the ladder. See the wife ugly as can be, Tell her you hate her. See the sun rise, And let your devils do the same.
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May 21, 2010
May 21, 2010 at 9:47 PM UTC
Incarnate