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she told me to be myself
but myself is screaming in my car
at the top of my lungs
going 80 on dirt roads
in the dark
where I think I've lost it all
but I can't stop running through
because it reminds me of you
and how we used to talk
how it was easy to be happy
and easy to forget
all the things you said
were wrong
and I'm crying out in pain
nostalgia's chokehold
she told me to be myself
I think I'm going to be myself
for a very long time
For those of you
who wonder if the devil is alive.

Ive seen him,
with my own eyes...

This is not a metaphor or a
symbolistic write of someone
who hurt me.

Nor,
is it a venom word spit
of someone that has made
me bleed.

For,
That kind of beauty
does not come from
human breed.

Take heed.

Because the Devil
is real.

and he is beautiful...
it is not the red horns
you see in books

or

the grotesque voice
that boils the feeling of
evil afoot...

No,
he is all shimmer
and wicked smiles.

Beauty is his strongest deception.
That way
it feels worth while.

And that,
is the most disturbing part...

We are obsessed...

with him,

and we do not even know it.

This is the harshness of being
a poet.

It is the beautiful things that make
our work.

The hurt
is his smirk.

But,
do not believe if you wish...
you do not have to take my words
as true.



But one thing I must say...
whether you accept it or not.




He definitely believes,
in you.
The dullest of backgrounds
In the unimaginative shape of cheap and cheapened unpainted wallpaper
Gives even this, the palest of pale faces, a colour
Unfortunately, a blue and purple vein occasioned twinge,
Does little to flatter smooth foreheads and tight jaws
Fortunately, boundless space and air thick with smothered apprehension
Give plentiful reflection potential for the last lazed rays that have wandered,
waning, through a harsh window open to drain the space more than fill it
Until, upon finding wet blue upon dry white
A frivolous rainbow flickers in the classic tear
On the perfect cheek between this smooth forehead and tightish jaw
Below the eye, one tiny, flickering, frivolous rainbow
For no one to see
The setting sun is already gone
Tomorrow it will come again
But when you leave like that
I never know if it's the end

Nothing that changes is mine
I tried to keep it but now nobody can
But what happens next is you
And what happens to me is your plan

I can't think like that anymore
You want to talk small
But what I said yesterday
Was more than saying that's all

It was a nice day once
Like a child playing on swings
But what I see in you anymore
Is a child playing with my strings
~                     *         In our hearts there is a lacking
                                       We made these boxes meant for stacking
To build our pyramids right to the top
                                 In hope to fill the hole
                                             But in truth we've no control
       In this stream of life were ascending
                         And we are all just pretending
                              To look full and whole to the rest of the world
       But maybe its just a tax
                         To these lives that where attached
         So that hole will be full
                                      once we've gone
                             Yet still I'm wrapped inside this coil
      That with it brings turmoil
               Though i am still young
                      I feel my soul is old and done
     So with what time i have left
                                              I will sit and take deep breaths
                             And listen gently to the falling rain
Wordsworth** of this generation?
They want attention, fame not transformation.
where are the revolutionary poets?
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