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nothing i want to say
every person in my brain
so so so much pain
just too much at stake
to walk away

the thoughts i've had
what i can't take back

i just wish i could hold you again
i'm sorry i wasn't a good friend
i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry once again
i'm sorry i made you scared to let me in

sunlight through a window
how could've i known
i blame myself even though
i couldn't prevent it even so
i'm scared for you to be alone

finally acknowledging it hurts
just to dismiss it by saying it could be worse

if i only i could try it again
find some way to magically convince
there are people who care what state your in
haunted by what i couldn't prevent
How to live in a van selling dog kidneys & corneas. The dog kidney & cornea market is highly profitable. The demand for dog- parts is phenomenal. Dog-transplantation surgery is fun & rewarding. You may ask: (1) How much money do I need to start a dog-***** business? (2) How many dogs do I need? (3) Where do I get dogs? (4) Is dog-meat as tasty as I imagine it to be?
Truth under my breath
But nobody can hear the words.
I’m thinking out loud, what’s keeping me alive?
What’s keeping my mind occupied on Mars,
Fickle friends and fast cars?

I’m too nervous to
Stand in the room, waiting for the world to swoon.
I don’t see none of my regrets
And I don’t need anybody’s help.

A puppet on the string,
Control everything.

I don’t need any more regrets.
And I don’t see anybody’s help.
But I don’t see anybody else.
Just mute me.
I follow the droppings-dappled sheep trails of Exmoor, veering right
toward the hills. A ***** white flock nuzzles the close-cropped
ground, but gnaws only humid air. In the dim light of evening,
a presence looms on the uneven horizon: the world of my
future and former selves, fitfully revealed and obscured,
first liberated from, then confined to the clinging veil of illusion
that clutches the dark English countryside, legacy of my birth.

I detect through the flattened corona of the monarch moon
outlines of a troupe of Shakespearean ghosts tottering my way.
Revealed and obscured, like questions in Hamlet's tragedy, they
mime the news of my heritage and inheritance: sin and ambition,
deception and pride. Emptiness reigns within me like a ruthless
queen, ****** and shorn, painted an otherworldly white: Elizabeth.

All this once would have been enough, but the soaked smell
of sheep reminds me I am still alone. No one comes to England
for solace or comfort. Yet the recipe for lasting identity, for a
significance of self, abides in the dark hills of Exmoor, launched
from sodden sheep trails, trammeled by a gaggle of ghosts who
juggle the jewels of Elizabeth's crown, sparkling in fog before me.
It's getting worse.
Whatever positive self-image I had
It's gone
This is what happens
Not going to school for 6 months
I get positive
I don't get made fun of
For being nerdy
Or for what I wear
But school starts on Thursday
And everything is starting to get worse
I hate when school starts. My self-esteem goes down and I hate myself more and more but it's fine. I'm fine. I think.
My Beloved glides through the room in light.
A flick of her hand, shadows dispense.
Her form beams shapely, vibrant and bright.
One sharp look wilts my world, weak and dense.

She is as fragrant as hyacinth at night.
She turns 'round; my willpower’s spent.
I reach for her arm; she’s fast in flight.
No coquettish flirting to make me wince.

Her inward freedom exposes my plight.
I am lovelorn, hard stricken. No defense.
Rising skyward, she claims heaven, her right.
Living earthbound, I maintain my poor sense.

Still, I yearn for her beauty: heart's light.
My pursuit is authentic. No pretense.

-- For Laura
My fingers typed in your name before my brain had a chance to realize
I clicked on your profile, the picture the car you drove daily
And before I knew what I was doing I had already scrolled through
Unable to control myself, I read through your posts
Seeing your new girl
Seeing how happy you were
Seeing that you were living your Happily Ever After
Samuel Taylor Coleridge digests his grayish-green anodyne
and dreams of the kaleidoscopic exotica of Kublai Khan.

Orson Welles puffs his cigar between takes, edits and directs
the poet's smoke-thin visions into everlasting, silver celluloid.

Xanadu, palatial complex of Khan's magnificent Mongolian empire,
metamorphoses into the fantasy kingdom of Charles Foster Kane

and his flame-filled childhood. Fumes of sizzling rosebuds streak
traces of gray across his bejeweled grasping after operatic grandeur.

Coleridge pens imagery of high-minded passion, tragic loss,
despair at sea -- an epic Delacroix -- while William Wordsworth

lets loose a clear-eyed revolution in the high flowery stanzas
of England's prettified poetry. Plain diction and the depths

of the self, suckled by the mystic wonders of Lakeland's fells, attune
to the melody of the poet's maturation, nature's marvel of The Prelude.

Chubby, cherubic Coleridge chases after the lean, elegant Wordsworth
to connive an unpatched rupture in poetry's flow: birth of Romanticism.

Kublai Khan's courtly poets conjure impossible imperial feats
to further the wise warrior mystique of China's first conqueror.

Grandson of Genghis Khan, he weaves the calligraphy of his
bravery into the broad shield he uses to rebuff temptation

of all but the serpentine lure of luxury and opulence, his rightful
reward, his cherished spoils, interest compounded daily at Xanadu.

A knock at the door, and Coleridge's dream tears asunder on film,
dissipating with the vapors rising up from Welles’ golden cigar.

Wordsworth wanders lonely as a cloud, watchful of nature's glory
expressed in woodlands, mountains, and the steady wash of the sea.

This all can be praised without ornament, witnessed without
embellishment, an earthy channel for the radiance of the world

to bless us, even though the world is too much with us. How much
splendor can one soul gather into the barns of abundance? Coleridge,

dejected among his odes, seeks ever more film time. Khan, free of worldly weariness, tallies his treasures. Wordsworth waves a daffodil and weeps.
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